Convergence of the Twain
by jd517
Summary: The Boys from Baker Street find themselves in Cornwall on a mysterious case when they are foced to call upon the assistance of Britain's grumpiest GP. Inspired ever so loosely on The Speckled Band. T rating for brief mention of drug use by the victim of a crime. No pairings or slash.
1. Chapter 1

**Convergence of the Twain, a Doc Martin and Sherlock Crossover Story**

Doc Martin belongs to Buffalo Pictures. Sherlock belongs to the BBC. I own nothing but my imagination. Many thanks to my talented and generous beta readers – ggo85 and Snowsie2011. The story is immeasurably better for their thoughtful and thorough reviews. All errors that remain are strictly my fault because I can't stop fiddling.

Set between episodes 3 and 4 of Doc Martin series 5 and episodes 2 and 3 of Sherlock series 2

**Chapter 1 - Prologue**

Somewhere in England, a doctor entered his kitchen on a sunny morning in his pajamas and dressing gown in search of caffeine to start his day. He grunted in dismay when he discovered there was no more coffee, and made a mental note to stop by the shops after his morning surgery to pick some up. Why, he thought to himself irritably, was the other occupant of this home unable to grasp the concept of purchasing staples BEFORE they ran out completely. He sighed and ran his fingers through his short fair hair, now showing more gray than he liked to admit. Tea then. He plugged in the kettle and reached for the teapot.

He laid the table carefully while waiting for the water to boil. Although he currently practiced general medicine, one needn't have checked his curriculum vita to tell he had been trained up as a surgeon – the way he aligned the cutlery, the precise angles at which he set the butter dish and the marmalade pot, the way he creased the serviettes before setting them beside the forks, all betrayed a precision and economy of motion that could only be the result of years spent in the operating theatre. When the implements for serving breakfast were arranged in as orderly a manner as a surgeon's tools, he turned to the whistling kettle and poured the water into the waiting teapot, setting the egg timer for three minutes and twelve seconds exactly.

When the tea had steeped, he poured himself a cup. Opening the fridge, he studiously avoided inspecting the mysterious covered bowl that had been left on the top shelf and rummaged until he found a pint of milk and a carton of eggs. He added a soupcon of milk to his tea and took a small sip, feeling the familiar warmth slide down his throat and begin to awaken his senses.

He didn't allow himself to linger over his cuppa, though. Time to make breakfast – something nourishing to sustain himself as well as his breakfast companion, one whose eating habits tended to appall him. His irritation at this belied his affection for the person in question, though, and prodded him to make a meal designed to tempt an appetite that often ran in opposition to his own nutritional guidelines. He briskly poured the remains of the water in the kettle into the saucepan to bring it to a boil before using a slotted spoon to deposit two eggs carefully in the bottom. He set the egg timer again and then cut two generous slices of whole meal bread which he swiftly popped into the toaster. He sliced an apple while he waited, his highly-trained hands wielding the knife as he had once done a scalpel, turning out perfect slices that fanned artistically on the plates.

When the eggs were in the egg cups and the toast was on the plates along with the sliced apple, he poured tea into a second cup. Making a moue of disapproval, he added two spoonfuls of sugar and some milk. Taking the cup along, he decided to see what was keeping his partner.

He entered the generously sized bedroom without switching on the light. In the dimness, he could still make out the sleeping form on the bed, duvet pulled up so that only a halo of dark hair was visible. He hated to disturb much needed sleep – he had no doubt the sleeper been up several times during the night - but it couldn't be helped. Placing the cup on the bedside table, he switched on the lamp and said "time to get up." His voice was gentle, but sufficient to rouse the bed's occupant.

In another room in another part of England, another doctor began his morning in exactly the same way.


	2. Chapter 2

**Convergence of the Twain, a Doc Martin and Sherlock Crossover Story**

Doc Martin belongs to Buffalo Pictures. Sherlock belongs to the BBC. I own nothing but my imagination.

Set between episodes 3 and 4 of Doc Martin series 5 and between episodes 1 and 2 of Sherlock series 2

Chapter 2 – Distractions

_London_

Dr. John Watson had a heavy patient list that morning; plenty of pensioners with high blood pressure, children with runny noses, teenagers with acne and all the usual ailments. It was busier than most Mondays as there had been two walk-in trauma cases requiring immediate attention. Sarah, John's former girlfriend and current boss, usually sent those patients to John, given his background as an army medic, so he'd found himself suturing the finger of a restaurant worker after an unfortunate run-in with a meat slicer and patching up a cyclist who'd run into a fire plug. All in a day's work.

Also all in a day's work had been the constant barrage of texts from Sherlock interrupting his day. Maddening, perhaps, but not unexpected as the world's only consulting detective was currently between cases. It had started with the usual _Come home, I'm bored. SH_ text at 10:15 and continued to interrupt at incredibly inconvenient moments, like when he was telling a stunned sixteen year old she was 12 weeks pregnant with twins. But John had responded. He always responded. He always intended not to, but there was just something about his infuriating flat-mate that compelled him to engage. Kind of like having a puppy that drove you to distraction chewing on your shoes and poo-ing on your rug but still wheedled you into playing fetch at the drop of a hat.

_Be useful. Buy COFFEE. JW_

_How Dull. Let's play Cluedo. SH_

_WORKING! JW_

_I need a CASE. SH_

_Clean up experiment in fridge. It's gruesome. JW_

_Can't. Mice need to soak twelve days. SH_

There had been no way to answer that last one. He shuddered to think about what the mice might be soaking in before moving swiftly to his next patient. After examining Mrs. Perkins' eczema and Mr. Harrison's tonsillitis, he checked his phone again, hoping all was quiet at home and he could have his lunch in peace. God bless Greg Lestrade of New Scotland Yard if he'd come through with something to occupy Sherlock's busy mind.

_10:43 The postman's gout is acting up again. SH_

_10:51 Don't you care how I worked that out? SH_

_10:58 Mrs. Hudson's sister had a falling out with her daughter. Will be stopping in Baker Street for the weekend. Mrs. H. will be v. surprised to see her on Sat. SH_

_11:06 Where's the pistol? SH_

_11:08 Bring home nicotine patches. SH_

_11:40 Meet me at the mortuary. SH_

_12:07 NOW. I need your medical opinion. SH_

"What a lunch invitation," thought John with a grin. Best offer he'd had all day. The game must be on. Grabbing his messenger bag and his jacket, he called over his shoulder to the harried receptionist that she'd better reschedule his one-thirty appointment before sprinting out the door and hailing a cab.

_Cornwall_

Dr. Ellingham's morning had not gone according to plan. The new receptionist was learning the ropes and trying to unravel the disaster the gone-and-best-forgotten Dr. Dibbs and her moronic husband had made of the filing system. A major epidemic of stupidity seemed to have broken out in the village over the weekend, as his Monday list included a farmer who hadn't bothered to come in Saturday when he cut open his hand with wire snips and now had a nasty infection and quite possibly tetanus, an unsupervised toddler who'd drunk an entire bottle of shampoo, and a fisherman who'd cut his tongue while trying to pull out his own tooth while at sea. Imbeciles, the whole lot of them.

His own lack of sleep wasn't helping matters. He was grumpy at the best of times, and with the baby's incessant wailing keeping Louisa and him awake much of the night, the little patience he usually had for the sick and injured of Portwenn had nearly vanished. The absence of coffee for breakfast this morning had been the last straw, leaving him in as foul a temper as he'd ever been.

As he was trying once again to explain the fact that there is no cure for sebhorreic dermatitis to daft Mr. Barnes, he heard a commotion in the reception area. There were raised voices, followed by a frightened call of "Doc?" in Morwenna's high pitched voice. He sighed heavily, handed Mr. Barnes his prescription and strode into the reception area in high dudgeon.

"What is the meaning of this ruckus?" he bellowed, looked around the room with fire in his eyes. Nobody spoke in response, but two burly men in stained jerseys and ragged jeans looked up at him with wide eyes.

"It's my mate, see," began one of them, the one in the blue shirt and the bandanna, haltingly. "He's been bit, hasn't he."

"Hit?"

"Naw, BIT, like with teeth and everything."

"Bit by whom?" asked Martin, imaging a pub brawl from the decidedly scruffy appearance of the two men.

"Not who – what is more like it. Bit by a bleedin' monkey. Here – see for yourself." As he did so, he held up the arm of his companion, the one with the bright red shirt and handlebar moustache to match. Martin took in the bloody towel wrapped around the man's arm and noticed the pallor under the grime on the man's face.

"Go through," he said curtly, turning on his heel and returning to the consulting room, turning a blind eye and a deaf ear to the dirty looks and the comments of "Hey, I was next" from the seated patients behind him.

In the consulting room, he motioned for the patient to sit on the couch. After washing his hands and donning a pair of gloves, Martin carefully unwrapped the man's arm. He momentarily stopped to swallow the bile that still rose in his throat when he was presented with a gory wound. He noticed immediately that the angry, bleeding mark clearly showed the imprint of a small but vicious jaw and very sharp teeth.

As he irrigated the wound over a basin, Martin turned to the patient's companion.

"How did he get this?"

"At work." In response to Martin's raised eyebrow, the man went on to clarify, "Me 'n Jerry work for the circus, see. Animal handlers."

"I see and Mr. – um – HE was bitten by a monkey in the course of his employment, is that it?"

"Er, yeah. That's about the size of it, innit. He's Jerry, Jerry Hayes. And I'm Eddie."

Had he been looking at Jerry's face, instead of at the wound, Martin might have noticed the furtive look the injured man gave to his mate, the clear sense of unease that the man's expression projected. As it was, Martin was instead trying to determine whether the bite was deep enough to have done major damage to any of the man's tendons. Any tension in the man's body language he subconsciously wrote off as nervousness.

"What sort of monkey was it?" he asked.

"A bloody cheeky one!" exclaimed Jerry in the first comment he'd made since arriving at the surgery.

Martin gave him a truculent look. "Not his personality, his SPECIES, you moron. I need to know so I can determine what diseases he might have spread to you with the bite."

"Er – don't know his species. Just a bleeding monkey – small one with a tail and a damn lot of attitude."

Martin sighed. "I'm going to need to put in some sutures here to close the worst part of the wound, and I'll give you a prescription for antibiotics. You'll need to keep the wound clean and come back in two days, sooner if it shows any sign of infection."

"Don't know how the guv will take that," muttered Eddie.

"And to be safe I'll give you tetanus shot, the first of a series of rabies inoculations and take a blood sample to check for Herpes B."

"HERPES! Wait just a minute there. No funny business went on, I just got bit on my arm, see. Nothing that would give me Herpes." Jerry jumped up off the couch in indignation.

Martin stretched out a hand to restrain him. "I was not referring to the sexually transmitted infection, you idiot. Herpes B is a different virus, often spread from animals including some kinds of monkeys to humans by a bite."

"He's not going to . . . to TURN INTO some kind of a monkey, is he? Not like in those films . . ." asked Eddie in a worried tone.

"Not unless he was bitten by a werewolf instead of a monkey," Martin replied acidly.

"Right. Good. That's good." Eddie seemed relieved and Jerry nodded his head.

"Idiots," Martin thought to himself.

"How long are you in the area?" Martin took a pre-packaged suture tray from the cupboard and donned a fresh pair of gloves. "Will you be able to continue treatment here or should I send your notes on to your own GP?" With his back turned to the men, he didn't see the panicked look Jerry gave Eddie before the latter responded.

"Er, not sure about that. Depends on the ticket sales," Eddie finally answered.

And then, just as Martin prepared to suture the wound, the power went out.


	3. Chapter 3

**Convergence of the Twain, a Doc Martin and Sherlock Crossover Story**

Doc Martin belongs to Buffalo Pictures. Sherlock belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. I own nothing but my imagination.

Set between episodes 3 and 4 of Doc Martin series 5 and between episodes 1 and 2 of Sherlock series 2

Chapter 3 – Corpses

_London_

John was so engrossed in reading the news headlines scrolling across the screen in the lift at St. Bart's that he almost didn't notice Sergeant Sally Donovan storm in as he arrived on the floor where the mortuary was located.

"Freak's in there. Doing his freaky thing," she snarled, waving her hand at the swinging doors and digging in her bag for her cigarettes as John exited the lift.

"Yeah, right. Good afternoon to you too." John's head swiveled toward her just as the lift's sliding doors closed on the furious detective.

In the mortuary, John found six people, three of them clearly dead. These three lay on stainless steel tables, the black body bags zipped open to reveal their waxen flesh. Molly Hooper stood to one side in her white lab coat, arms crossed defensively across her chest and a look that said "I told you so" on her face. Greg Lestrade leaned up against the wall, hands in the pockets of his rumpled grey trousers, jacket slung over his shoulder. Both of them watched Sherlock so intently that they failed to notice John when he entered the room.

The consulting detective was kneeling at the foot of one of the tables, magnifying glass in hand, examining what appeared to be the toes of one of the corpses. Unlike the others, he was instantly aware John had arrived.

"Come and have a look," he commanded.

John somehow knew Sherlock wasn't addressing Molly. He came up beside his flat-mate and crouched down. "What am I looking for?"

"Snake bite."

"Between his toes? I don't see anything – can you point out where the wound is?" All he saw were a dead man's grubby toes with absolutely disgusting toenails.

"If I knew where it was, I wouldn't have asked for your help, would I?"

"If there isn't a wound, why are you thinking snake bite?"

Sherlock snorted. "Tell me what you see, John."

The doctor was used to this by now. This, this GAME, where Sherlock would ask him to report what he found and then berate him for seeing but not OBSERVING He slowly circled the table, examining the body without touching it, taking a moment to consider the evidence in front of his face before answering the detective.

"I see three dead bodies. This one is male, maybe thirty or so. Appears to have needle tracks on his arms so I'm guessing he's a drug user. The Y incision has been stitched up so Molly has already done her post mortem. Somewhere along the line his nose was broken. Traces of blood around his face – bled from the nose, maybe? Or mouth?"

Sherlock nodded absently, standing up and crossing his arms as his mind whirred along, almost audibly. "And the others?"

John walked slowly around the other two tables, quietly looking and trying to see, to deduce, the way Sherlock always urged him to do. "This one's a young woman. Not yet twenty I'd say. Also a drug user. Also had a post mortem. She was beat up at some point, but her bruises look old – I don't think that's the cause of death. And the last one is another bloke, older than the first, also a drug user and it appears that Molly has done her work on him too. "John stopped and then peered at the corpse's left bicep again. "Oh, and he's American, university educated." He took Sherlock's brief smile as a sign of approval and noted Greg's look of skepticism. "You can tell from his tattoo; Kappa Alpha is an American university fraternity."

"And?"

"So we have three dead junkies - already autopsied so presumably Molly knows the cause of death. Crime must be suspected for the Detective Inspector to be here. None of which explains why you are examining toes and looking for snake bite wounds."

Sherlock cocked his head to one side, causing his untidy dark curls to flop over half of his face. "Doctor Hooper, would you care to enlighten him?" He smirked as he said this and John felt a little bit sorry for Molly.

The pathologist looked nervous, biting the over-bright lipstick off her bottom lip. That wasn't unusual. Even after the Irene Adler affair, Molly still became helplessly flustered around Sherlock.

She stammered. "The, er, three, er, victims were brought in over the course of the last two weeks. According to the police, each one was found alone under circumstances suggesting drug overdose. Based on the toxicology reports it appears each victim administered heroin intravenously within the two hours preceding death. However, in none of these cases was heroin overdose the cause of death."

"Go on," said Sherlock, who had now moved on to examining the corpse's armpits.

Molly's face flamed and her tone became louder and less controlled. "Sherlock, I told you already. I have examined each of these bodies meticulously, more than once. You are not going to find a bite mark – there simply isn't one on any of them. There was no snake bite."

Molly's outburst surprised John. Not at all her usual temperament. "Molly, can you tell me why you looked for bite marks?" John asked, gently. "What makes you think snakes were involved?"

Molly glanced at Sherlock before turning to John, her wide eyes flitting from one man to the other. John saw that Sherlock merely looked bemused as the pathologist spoke. "Each of the victims suffered paralysis and eventually respiratory failure. Massive hemorrhaging sped things along. And the tox screen showed huge amounts of neurotoxins and myotoxins, anticoagulants, things usually found in combination in snake venom."

"You mean they were poisoned?" John's medical training wasn't helping him here. Was snake venom toxic if swallowed? He couldn't recall. But without a bite wound, what other explanation could there be?

Molly shook her head. "No, it wasn't in the stomach contents – they couldn't have ingested it. And in the concentrations found, it would have fatal within a couple of hours at most without anti-venom, which was not present in the blood stream. The substance had to have been administered subcutaneously – through the skin - like when a snake . . . er . . . bites someone." Molly's voice trailed off and she looked down at her hands and pointedly away from the consulting detective.

John couldn't help but notice Sherlock's smirk of triumph.

_Cornwall_

When the electricity did not come back on straight away, Martin had been forced to cancel surgery. With the power out and the surgery unlit, he dared not try to suture Jerry Hayes's wounds. Instead, he had managed to loosely close them up steri-strips. Now that was a task he would not like to repeat in the dark ever again! It was always tricky to get the sticky pieces in the proper place and in the dim light of the surgery, even with the aid of a torch held by the patient's annoying companion, it had been ridiculously frustrating.

There had been a gaggle of patients waiting in reception when he finished with Hayes, but there was very little he could do for them. Joy Cronk had come in with another asthma attack and he'd been forced to call an ambulance for her since he had no power to run the nebulizer. The blackout was particularly irritating TODAY because it was so unexpected on a clear day with not a cloud in the sky, no sign of a storm that could have caused the outage. Although he was quite frustrated at the disruption of his routine, Martin did have to admit that it had been no small pleasure to send the rest of the patients and Morwenna on home until the electricity could be restored.

A bit of a walk to clear his head had dissipated some of his frustration, and his mood was starting to improve. He strode through the village on his way back from the shops, coffee, a nice piece of fresh cod and a few other bits and pieces tucked in a plastic carrier bag hooked over his elbow. He hoped electricity would be restored in time to cook an appetizing meal for Louisa.

His interest was piqued by the sight of satellite vans from ITV News and the BBC parked outside the pub – that was a very unusual sight in Portwenn to be sure. As he rounded the Plat he noticed a crowd gathering outside the police station and wondered what might be going on. What he didn't see was any sign of the police. Where was Penhale, anyhow? Hopefully the constable's agoraphobia had not reared its ugly head again, not that a village bobby's mental health ought to be a national news story.

As he climbed Rosscarrock hill towards the surgery and home, he passed a gaggle of gossips gathered outside The Large Restaurant. Bert stood in the midst of a knot of people, apparently regaling them with some tale or another. Martin rolled his eyes and strode past, ignoring Bert's call of "Doc . . . Doc – have you heard the news? Doc?" Martin lengthened his stride to insure that Bert couldn't overtake him, leaving the portly restaurateur puffing in his wake.

Arriving home, Martin entered through the kitchen and set about stowing his purchases, grumbling as he did about the fact that the power had yet to be restored. Louisa was dozing on the sofa and the baby was asleep in the Moses basket on the floor beside her. He stopped just to gaze at them, to marvel at their matching rosebud mouths and apple blossom complexions. He took a moment to tuck the edge of the blanket around his sleeping son before heading off to the consulting room to see if there was sufficient light from the window to be able to update his patient notes from the morning.

His mobile rang just as he crossed through into the surgery.

"Ellingham," he bellowed.

"P.C. Joseph Penhale here, calling on official business."

Martin closed his eyes momentarily thinking Why me, why now? "Yes, constable, what seems to be the matter?"

"Well we've found the cause of the power outage. An eight-foot long snake got into the electrical substation and caused a short." Penhale chuckled at his own joke. "Get it? A long snake caused a SHORT!" He seemed inordinately pleased with himself, the imbecile.

"So why are you calling me?"

"You're my doctor. I need medical advice."

"What does a snake in an electrical substation have to do with your health?" Really the man was a menace!

"Well, as the primary front line law enforcement officer in the area, it falls to me to investigate the matter, to find out what happened, keep it from happening again."

"There are no eight foot long snakes indigenous to Britain. I can't imagine there is much risk of it happening often. And you still haven't told me how this relates to your health."

"See the thing is . . . well you know about my, er, little problem, you know."

This conversation was maddening. All the benefits of his impromptu free afternoon would be worn off completely if his day continued in this vein. "Which little problem? Your narcolepsy?"

"No, not that one. The other little problem . . . the, the phobia?"

"Agoraphobia. Yes, but you've been treated for that. Are you having symptoms now? What does it have to do with the snake?"

"Well I seem to have developed another, er, phobia. A phobia of snakes. Never could stand them, but now the thought that there might be giant mutant electrical snakes slithering around Cornwall – well it is really getting to me. You've got to help me, Doc."

"Ophidiophobia? How is it making you feel? Is it causing panic symptoms or is it making you feel like you need to stay inside the police station? I need to know if it is triggering the agoraphobia or if it is manifesting in some other way."

"I dunno, Doc. Both maybe. You've got to do something. Right away. I have to scour the countryside looking for clues as to where the snake came from. Plus the post-mortem."

"Did somebody die? Whose post-mortem?"

"The snake, Doc. The snake died."

Martin snorted. "Well of course it did. That much electricity would kill pretty much any living organism. I should think the cause of death would be obvious. As for the phobia, there is no treatment I can give you that will solve that in time for you to perform an immediate investigation. You'll need therapy, behavior modification . . ."

"But Doc, I don't have time for that, surely you can give me something."

Martin rubbed his temple, feeling a headache coming on. Best get this over with. "Alright. If you come up here, I'll write you a prescription for an anti-anxiety medication. But only if you are well enough to come up here on your own. If I have to come there, I'm turning you back over to the psychiatrist up in Truro."

Martin could hear the policeman take a deep breath. Then there was a long silence. "Penhale? Are you still there? Constable?"

Then he heard a door open. "It's okay, Doc. I'm coming."

"Right. I'll be here." Martin pressed the button to end the call.

He went to the filing cabinet with his torch to find Penhale's notes. And he thought about the snake. For a small village, Portwenn had more excitement some days than one would imagine looking at it. It was a far cry from a biscuit-tin village today. And if he were in charge of Penhale's investigation, he knew just where he'd start. Oh, yes. If one wanted to know how an eight-foot long non-native snake ended up in a sleepy Cornish fishing village, Martin would recommend starting with that traveling circus.

To be continued . . .


	4. Chapter 4

**Convergence of the Twain, a Doc Martin and Sherlock Crossover Story**

Doc Martin belongs to Buffalo Pictures. Sherlock belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. I own nothing but my imagination.

Set between episodes 3 and 4 of Doc Martin series 5 and between episodes 1 and 2 of Sherlock series 2

Chapter 4 – Conundrums

_Cornwall_

The afternoon sun still illuminated the kitchen in the Martin's cottage disguising the fact that the power was still out. Martin had donned an apron over his blue pinstripe suit and was standing at the worktop, seasoning the fish when Louisa came in from feeding the baby and putting him to bed.

"Did he go down easily?" he asked solicitously, watching her with a mixture of admiration and apprehension. He wished he could erase the look of fatigue around her eyes and that something deeper about her demeanor that troubled him, something he couldn't help but assume was disappointment. Still, to him she looked stunning, absolutely stunning, even in her baggy drawstring trousers and the oversized t-shirt with a burp cloth draped over her shoulder.

"For the moment. He had a good feed so fingers crossed he'll sleep for a bit." She crossed to the table and sat down to fold the laundry waiting in the basket. "How was your day, then?" The socks she was mating were so tiny. It was unbelievable that feet could be that tiny.

"Fine until the thing with the power. Blasted circus. Shouldn't be allowed."

"Circus? What circus? What does that have to do with the power outage?" She put the socks down and looked at him in surprise.

"Well Penhale told me that they have discovered the power short was caused by some enormous snake in the electrical substation. Had to be from that circus – I mean who else would have exotic animals around here?" He put down the knife and wiped his hands on a tea towel.

"But the circus? The circus isn't in town. I would know if it were. They were just here in May."

"Well it must be. I had two of the animal handlers in the surgery this morning."

"It can't be. They always pay the school to use the playing field as a car park. I don't expect them back until next spring." Her pony tail swished as she spoke, given him an inkling that she was getting riled up.

"Well maybe it is a different circus then. I don't know. But where else would a monkey bite come from? Or an exotic snake?"

"Where are they set up? Did you see the caravans? The marquee? What about signs – are there signs for the circus?" She was clearly agitated.

"I don't know. I don't recall seeing any, but who'd be looking for them anyhow? What does it matter?" His voice was tense but even he didn't know why he was so irritated by this.

"Well I don't want the school to miss out on the fee for letting the playing field. We need the money – it comes to a tidy sum. I wonder if I should phone Stu McKenzie and see if they paid him, seeing as they didn't come and speak to me about it." She looked thoughtful and picked up a pencil to write a note.

Martin was puzzled but not alarmed by the news. Maybe the circus was just passing through or playing a neighboring village. There hadn't been any reason for the two men to lie to him, had there? And where else but a circus would someone in Portwenn come up with a monkey bite. "Well, anyway, until the power went out, things were fine. I've got an early start tomorrow though – I have to go out to the ranger station and see Stewart."

"Everything okay with him?"

"You know I can't discuss my patients."

"Er right, of course. Well say hello from me."

Martin put the fish fillets on a platter and opened the fridge to find salad ingredients, noticing suddenly that the light was off. "Bugger. Power's still off."

"How are you planning to cook that, then? With the power out?" Louisa asked, with a skeptical look at the packet of fish.

"Well, that is . . ." Blast. He had just assumed the power would be restored before dinner.

"Perhaps we should go out to dinner?"

"The power's out all over the village – we'd have to drive somewhere," he said dubiously. "It's better not to wake the baby." He went to the pantry to see what might be on hand to eat without cooking. Cornflakes, perhaps. Fruit. Nothing sufficiently substantial to make a meal.

"We could barbeque."

"What? You mean hot dogs in the garden?"

"No, we could cook the fish on the barbeque. We could even bring the food inside to eat, if you prefer, get out some candles for light." Her voice was wistful and he couldn't quite figure out why.

"I, er, don't have a barbeque grill. And won't the fish get all crumbly and fall through the grate?"

She sighed. "I have a barbeque grill. It is in the shed at my cottage. If you go over and bring it back, I'll make foil packets to cook the fish in – it won't get crumbly that way."

He gave her a long look, and then sighed. Without a better suggestion to offer, he untied the apron. "Give me the key, then." He made a mental note to pay attention as he drove across the village, looking for tangible evidence of this mysterious circus.

X

_London_

"John."

"Hmmph?"

"John! This is no time to be sleeping." The detective bunged a glass slide from across the lab, which clattered to the floor at his flat-mate's feet.

"Sherlock, it is three a.m. It is exactly the time to be sleeping." John's voice was sleepy and just the tiniest bit petulant.

"Text Lestrade. Tell him to meet us at the flat in half an hour." Sherlock's usual imperious tone.

With a sigh, John lifted his head from the worktable in the lab at Bart's. He hadn't been sleeping, just resting his eyes, thank you very much. Shadows smudged under his dark blue eyes, and his sandy hair was standing on end from the number of times he had raked his fingers through it in frustration since his return to Bart's at six p.m. after his delayed and abbreviated afternoon surgery.

He'd brought a take-away curry that Molly at least had appreciated. Sherlock had been lost in his microscope and his own head, trying to identify the type of snake that could have produced the venom found in the blood of the victims. John was beginning to wonder if he had been called over here just to hand Sherlock his mobile phone at various intervals. Typical, absolutely typical.

"Have you done it then? Identified the snake?" John asked, fishing in his pocket for his mobile. He knew that this would be a nearly impossible task – snake venom was usually identifiable because you actually had the snake, not the other way around. But if anyone could do it, he thought, it would be his brilliant if infuriating flat-mate.

Sherlock's long, lean body fairly vibrated with excitement, despite the late hour. "Yes. It was down to two, but given the volume and toxicity of various compounds I have concluded we are looking for a Tiger Snake."

"Never heard of them." John finished typing the text and pressed send, hoping the Detective Inspector would be eager enough to solve this case that he would forgive John for summoning him at this ungodly hour.

"They are only native in Australia. You weren't likely to have run into them in Hampshire growing up. Or in Afghanistan either, for that matter." Sherlock shut down the microscope and scribbled a note to Molly for her to follow up when she got in later. The plucky pathologist had given up the ghost and gone home hours ago, possibly because she was exhausted, more likely because Sherlock had called her hand-knit teddy bear jumper juvenile and asked if she was only wearing it because her mother was visiting.

"Australian snakes?" asked John. "And how are we supposed to find one or know it is the one that bit the victims, if they even were bitten?"

"Shouldn't be difficult. It is illegal to export them from Australia. And they are huge – one to two meters long, with bands of color or even speckles on them. There can't be that many in Britain."

"Well couldn't someone have just brought the venom in? I mean you never found an actual bite wound . . ."

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose, then steepled his hands. "John, they must have been bitten. There is no other explanation. However unlikely it seems, it must somehow be true."

There was no use arguing with him. John picked up his jacket and followed the swirl of Sherlock's black coat out of the lab and out to the lift. On the ride to the ground floor, John rubbed his eyes and yawned, showing every minute of the twenty-one hours he had been awake that day.

Sherlock, on the other hand, still looked fresh as a daisy, at least as fresh as a daisy that had spent most of its day in the morgue. The detective glanced up at the crawl of headlines across the screen in the lift. He couldn't help that information interested him – he was drawn to facts like a moth to the flame. As he read the news, the wheels in his frenzied brain came to a full stop.

"John!" He shouted, startling his companion. "John, there's been a change of plans. We're going to Cornwall!"

To be continued . . .


	5. Chapter 5

**Convergence of the Twain, a Doc Martin and Sherlock Crossover Story**

Doc Martin belongs to Buffalo Pictures. Sherlock belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. I own nothing but my imagination.

Set between episodes 3 and 4 of Doc Martin series 5 and between episodes 1 and 2 of Sherlock series 2

Chapter 5 – Discoveries

"Tell me again why we're going to Cornwall," asked John when he returned from the dining car on the 7:06 from Paddington Station to Bodmin Parkway, carrying two cups of what passed for coffee and two bacon sarnies.

Sherlock looked up from his mobile. "Keep up, John; it's tiresome repeating things. They found a snake in Cornwall. On the loose. An eight foot non-native snake. It made the news when it caused a power outage by making a nest in an electrical substation."

"So you think this snake bit three junkies in London with its magic teeth that leave no wounds, than just what, slithered its way to Cornwall?" John shook his head. Even if he had been allowed to sleep in the past twenty-four hours, this still wouldn't have made any sense.

"John. What is Cornwall known for?"

"I dunno. King Arthur? Surfing? Ice Cream?" John unwrapped his sandwich and added a healthy dollop of brown sauce from a fiddly little packet.

"Smuggling, John. Smuggling." Sherlock studied John just as his friend took a bite of his dripping sandwich. "Disappointing, yes?"

John swallowed audibly and then swiped at his chin with a little paper napkin. "What, the smuggling?"

"No, the sandwich. Disappointing, right? What other kind of a breakfast is there on a train?"

"Well I guess you don't want this one, then," asked John, gesturing to the second wrapped sandwich. Sherlock merely shook his head and took a sip of his coffee, losing himself in his mind palace once more.

The disembodied announcer's voice rattled off the list of upcoming stops just as John finished his second admittedly disappointing sandwich. He settled back in his seat. He figured he had a couple of hours until they reached Cornwall that might well be put to use napping. Before he could close his eyes, however, the conductor approached, staring at them.

"You're them two blokes, ain't you? The ones in the papers?" The man's West Country accent was pronounced.

Sherlock looked up icily. "I beg your pardon?"

"Yes, you're him. That detective fella. And you must be his, what, his, his . . ." The man's voice trailed off as he looked over at John, not sure what to make of him.

"I'm his blogger," John said, interrupting efficiently after answering this question innumerable times in recent months.

"Why I never! Wait 'til I tell the missus! Two famous London detectives right here on my train."

Sherlock gave him a thin smile.

"Say, have you got that hat with you? Could I get a snap?" The conductor produced a camera from the breast-pocket on his smart blue uniform jacket and waggled it in Sherlock's direction. "The wife would love that."

"I don't think . . ." John knew he needed to derail this inquiry quickly before Sherlock said something that would result in them being banned from British Rail for life.

"Don't say anything," Sherlock hissed in a menacing voice to the conductor. "Don't say a word about us; don't tell anyone we were here."

The startled man backed up. "Oh, I get it. Incognito and all that," he whispered, conspiratorially.

"Stop talking. You're irritating me."

The man's face fell. John looked at him helplessly and shrugged somewhat sheepishly. Sherlock glowered. The conductor sighed and put the camera back in his pocket.

"Sharon will be so disappointed."

"Which one is she?" Sherlock spat, acidly, "the blonde in London or the brunette in Cornwall?"

The man looked at Sherlock in horror, and then making a huff of disgust, he strode off to the next compartment.

John sighed. "Did you have to do that? Now he'll probably put us off the train in Devon."

Sherlock smirked. "He had it coming."

"When did you get so moralistic? What business is it of yours even if he does have two women on the string?"

"Oh he does, at least two. But that isn't of any concern to me. However, it is my concern that he is flogging photos of us to every tabloid rag in England."

"How could you possibly know that?"

Sherlock closed his eyes, momentarily, before rattling off in his patented way, "One, he carried a real camera – he didn't want to use the one on his mobile, even though there is one on his mobile. He must need a better quality picture than just a snap for his wife. Second, I saw him looking at us on the platform. He took a snap of us on his camera phone then. If all he wanted was a snap for the wife, that would have done it. I'm sure he texted that to his editor to see if they had any interest. Thirdly, when he entered this compartment, he didn't speak to any other passengers. He took a brief call on his mobile, nodded his head, then plastered his smarmy grin on his face and approached us. Not interested in passengers generally; just us. He's wearing a Rolex. Not a fake one but a real one. New model, so he didn't inherit it. It costs ten thousand pounds, – a sum generally outside the reach of a man on a British Rail salary. So he has a taste for expensive consumer goods, one he needs an outside income for. Add to that the two wives and you have motive, opportunity and method. He's selling our photo to the tabloids, alright. There will probably be a mob at the station to meet us."

"How do you know he has two wives?"

Sherlock gave John an exasperated look. "You know my methods – it's really quite simple, I would have thought it was obvious. First, his shirt and his jacket were clearly ironed by different hands. Shirt was probably packed the day before, ironed by the wife in Cornwall; jacked isn't laundered every day – likely dry cleaned occasionally – but it has the shine of being recently pressed so the wife in London probably touched it up with the iron before he left this morning. She is left handed while the other ironer uses her right. Second, on his ring finger he has a tan line that is wider than the wedding ring he currently wears, evidence that sometimes, particularly when he is in the sun, he wears a wider ring. The thin one is the London ring; he'll swap it for a wider one in Cornwall. So not just a girlfriend but two women who believe they are married to him. Thirdly, when he pulled out his camera, I saw two long blonde hairs on the inside of his jacket. They wouldn't get there from a passenger - it had to be from someone he got physically close to - ergo the woman in London is a blonde. When he waved his camera, you could see the last photo he took on the screen – a brunette with a surfboard who must be the one in Cornwall. Honestly, John, it is very elementary stuff."

"That was . . . "

"I know, John, it was amazing. You've said before. Now go to sleep." Sherlock turned his attention back to his mobile and John closed his eyes and began to drift off, forgetting to ask Sherlock why he thought anyone would want to smuggle snakes.

X

"Stuart!" Martin bellowed as he stood at the Ranger's gate, looking with some mild apprehension at the low shingled house, wondering what weirdness he would discover this time. "Stuart! It's Doctor Ellingham." He waited a moment, and then bellowed again, "We have an appointment."

Gingerly he lifted the lid on the box holding the key to the padlock on the gate. He opened the gate and approached the house carefully. Stuart was unstable, under-medicated, and trained as a sniper so it was wise to be on one's guard around his residence. Just as he reached the porch, Martin heard the sound of footsteps from inside the house.

"Stuart?"

"Doc! Mornin' Doc." Stuart emerged from the house carrying a plate of grain and a cup of what smelled like coffee. "Just bringing Anthony his brekkie."

"Ah, yes. Er. Good morning, Anthony." Martin knew better than to ignore Stuart's imaginary friend, the invisible six-foot red squirrel he called Anthony and treated like a member of the family. He shook hands with thin air, hoping to stay on Stuart's good side and get out of here without incident.

"Good of you to come. Do you have my tablets?"

"Yes, yes I do," Martin replied, opening his bag and removing a vial filled with vitamins and labeled with an equally imaginary prescription for a powerful anti-psychotic drug. "Have you been keeping your appointments with the Army psychologist?" Martin had realized he needed help keeping tabs on the shell-shocked veteran's mental status after Stuart's last outburst in the village.

"Yes, I do. Anthony quite likes her. She always brings him cake." This was said wistfully, as though the mad Ranger were jealous of his pet.

"Good, very good. Now let me just take your blood pressure and we'll be all set." He pulled his stethoscope and sphygmomanometer from his bag and gestured for Stuart to roll up his sleeve.

"You'd better check Anthony's blood pressure too, Doc," Stuart said as Martin fitted the cuff around his arm. "He's had quite a fright, he has."

"Shush." Martin held up his hand to indicate Stuart should stay quiet while he used the stethoscope to finish his blood pressure check. When he finished, he removed the cuff. "What kind of a fright?"

"Found a nest of monster vipers, he has. He used his gun on them when his paws weren't enough – I found the bullet holes in the corpses."

"Uh huh," Martin nodded as he wrote the results of the blood pressure check on Stuart's patient notes. Invisible bullet holes put into invisible snakes by an invisible gun wielded by an invisible squirrel. Just perfect.

Stuart did up his sleeve and eyed Martin's medical case. "I think Anthony might need a sedative. For the fright."

Martin frowned. "Er, right. Let me go to the car – I might have something there." As he walked, he wondered wryly if the Royal College of Veterinarians would censure him for prescribing medication for an invisible squirrel without the required license. Such nonsense. In the car, he put seven aspirin tablets in a vial and labeled it in his physician's scrawl _one tablet daily as needed for fright_.

Leaving his medical bag in the car, he returned to the house where he found Stuart digging a hole in the yard.

"Here you go. Give him one if he needs it, for the, er, fright."

"Thanks, Doc." Stuart took the vial, examined the label, and put the bottle in his pocket.

"I'll be going, then," Martin announced.

"Can you give me a hand with this, first?"

Martin looked at the hole. "You seem to be doing fine."

"Ah, but I could use a hand with the sack." He gestured to a large canvas sack lying on the porch.

Martin grimaced, then remembered his first encounter with Stuart, and decided it was better to go along with whatever he asked rather than risk setting him off. "Alright, where do you want it?"

"Just drag it down here, by the grave. I'm going to bury the snakes so they don't bother Ant any longer."

What on Earth am I getting into here, Martin thought to himself? This sack was impossibly heavy and he couldn't imagine it held snakes, not really. He helped Stuart drag the heavy sack over by the hole wondering just what it was that Stuart intended to bury. He didn't feel he could leave without finding out; it could be some kind of health hazard.

Stuart put down the spade and rubbed his hands on his trousers. "Thanks, Doc." He untied the rope around the sack, opening it enough for Martin to peer in.

He was unprepared for the sight.

Inside the sack were half a dozen or more enormous dead snakes, riddled with knife marks and bullet holes. Some of them had been sliced open end to end and had their entrails hanging out.

"A right bloody mess, aren't they?" Stuart said. "Anthony had quite a battle on his hands."

"You don't think your . . . your . . . squirrel did THIS, do you?" sputtered Martin.

"Well who else would it be? No one but me and Ant out here. None of the other creatures have access to a gun. If not Anthony, then who?"

Who indeed?

To be continued . . .


	6. Chapter 6

**Convergence of the Twain, a Doc Martin and Sherlock Crossover Story**

Doc Martin belongs to Buffalo Pictures. Sherlock belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. I own nothing but my imagination.

Set between episodes 3 and 4 of Doc Martin series 5 and between episodes 1 and 2 of Sherlock series 2

**Chapter 6 – Encounter**

**Cornwall**

As the borrowed Jaguar slid over the moor, John had to smile. Leave it to Sherlock to know a car salesman in Cornwall who, like nearly everyone Sherlock met, owed him a favor. They had been met at the station by a florid man with unnaturally flame-colored hair and a flashy Italian suit. The bloke had clapped Sherlock on the back and raved about what good mates they were since Sherlock had turned the tables on an Internet dating scam called the Red-Headed League that preyed on the ginger-haired and bilked them. And then, without batting an eyelash, on the strength of a cryptic text- message Sherlock had sent from the train, this man had handed over the keys to the £100,000 convertible that Sherlock was now piloting down the motorway. It almost made up for the annoyance of dealing with the media blitz that had surrounded them when they alit from the train, just as Sherlock had predicted.

"Quite a nice ride, don't you think, John? Dynamic stability control, adaptive dynamics and wishbone suspension . . ." Sherlock's sonorous voice sounded like the advert on the telly.

"What are you on about – auditioning for _Top Gear_?"

Sherlock gave him a bemused look. "You're just jealous that I'm the one driving."

"Cheeky bastard!" John fiddled with the touch screen sound system controls until Mick Jagger was singing about _Satisfaction_ from all eight speakers and sat back to enjoy the ride.

As the car passed the "Welcome to Portwenn" sign on the road into the village, he turned to Sherlock and asked, "Well, here we are. Where to first?" He wished, without a shred of hope, that the tireless detective would say food or beds or baths. He knew that wouldn't happen but he was unprepared for the actual answer.

"Chemist."

"Chemist? "

"I need to think. It will be far more efficient with nicotine. A three-patch day I should think."

John shook his head. As much as he admired Sherlock for kicking his cigarette habit, he was appalled at the way his friend outrageously abused patches as a replacement. "As your physician I have to advise you that this is not wise . . ."

"As your patient, I have the right to act against medical advice . . ."

John knew there was no point in arguing about this; he'd lost before and no doubt he'd lose this one again. "On your head, then, you tosser."

The next sound was the laughter of lunatics.

X

John and Sherlock found the chemist's shop quite easily – there really wasn't much in this little village to speak of – and soon found themselves queuing behind a tall, imposing man in a dark blue suit waving a very long shopping list at the chemist, and a family of holiday makers in swimwear and sandals who quite clearly had just walked in off the beach. Sherlock sighed heavily; he was never a patient man and this was particularly true when it came to waiting for nicotine. John pulled himself up to his full height and gave Sherlock his best "behave yourself or there will be hell to pay" look. Sherlock rolled his eyes in reply.

"It'll be alright, Nicky, so stop whinging," said the harried mother-tourist to her son, who in fact did look quite red and not a little bit miserable, standing there toying with the ties on his fish-themed bathers. "It's no fun to be sunburnt but we'll get some Aloe and you'll be just fine." She patted his head and then glanced around until she saw the boy's sisters making a nuisance of themselves. "Oi, you lot, get back here. And leave that lipstick display alone!"

"But Mum, we're so bored!" the girls chorused. "We're meant to be at the beach." Their flip flops made thwacking sounds against the floor as they dragged themselves back to where their mother was standing, hands on her hips to show them she meant business.

"Well it can't be helped. Nicky's got sunburn and we need to get something to make it better. Soon as we do, we'll be back on the beach. So stand here by me and be good girls and we can get ice cream after."

The tall man with the displeased expression and the Savile Row tailoring was attempting to pay for his purchases. He was being thwarted by the chemist, an older woman who wore too much lipstick and sported a twin set and a cervical collar. She handed her customer a large paper carrier bag with his purchases and began simpering on about hobnobs and tea, while the man's expression grew increasingly tempestuous. John wondered what it was that made the man so sour looking – the fact that he was wearing an uncomfortable-looking suit and tie in the August heat in a fishing village or the fact that the batty chemist was so obviously trying to attract his attention.

"John." Sherlock said in a not so quiet voice. "John, that boy doesn't have sunburn. If he was red from the sun, his whole face would be red, not just his cheeks. And the back of his neck would be burned as well as his shoulders. For that matter, his mother and sisters would be burned too – she isn't likely to have put sunscreen on only two of her children. And it's fairly cloudy outside – I wouldn't expect any of them to be very sunburned."

"Sherlock!" John scolded, giving him his best "Not Good" look. But he glanced at the boy and could see that his flatmate was right. The boy's cheeks were red, but the area around his mouth was pale. His chest and his shoulders were red, but the back of his neck was not. And neither of his sisters was particularly sunburned – each had a little pink on the tip of her nose but nowhere else that John could see.

The mother gave Sherlock a dirty look and put her arms around her children. The tall man turned abruptly away from the woman behind the till and crouched down in front of the squirming boy. After examining him for a moment, the man looked up at Sherlock.

"Who are you?" The tone was accusatory and the expression could almost be called hostile.

Sherlock sniffed and looked down his aquiline nose. "Holmes, Sherlock Holmes."

John watched the man's face and saw no evidence that he recognized Sherlock. Thank God for small favors.

"Are you a physician?" the man asked.

"No, but . . ." Before Sherlock could finish, the man turned away dismissively.

"I'm a doctor," he said after a moment. He put his hand on the child's forehead and then, depositing his shopping on the floor, produced a thermometer from his breast pocket and promptly inserted the instrument into the astonished boy's open mouth.

"Just what do you think you're doing?" asked the indignant mother. John couldn't blame her – this was unusual behavior for a doctor indeed – most of the ones he knew went out of their way to avoid being asked to examine random strangers outside the surgery in any but the direst circumstances.

"Shush," said the doctor. After a minute or so, the thermometer beeped and he pulled it out of the child's mouth and nodded his head. He drew the child over by the window and examined his face and ran his hand over the boy's arm where it was red.

"He has scarlet fever. The rash on his arms and torso may look like sunburn but it feels like sandpaper. His face is red due to the fever." He ran his hands over the boy's throat. "Glands are swollen too. Bring him to my surgery at three o'clock."

"But we're meant to be at the beach," the mum protested. "I'm sure he's only had too much sun. A rest, a cool drink, and he'll be right as rain, won't he?" She looked to the chemist for reassurance.

"Dr. Ellingham is a very good doctor," said the older woman with a look of adoration on her face. "If he says your boy has scarlet fever, I'd listen to him."

"But scarlet fever . . ."

"A relatively common infection," said the Doctor. "It's highly contagious. He'll need antibiotics and rest. Definitely no more sun. I need to do a throat culture which I can't do here in the shop, and the other children should be checked to make sure they haven't contracted it too. Three o'clock. Mrs. Tishell can give you directions to the surgery." And with that, he grabbed his purchases and swept out the door without a backward glance at the boy or his mother.

John realized he was gawping and closed his mouth. Once look at Sherlock made it clear that the detective's brain was working overtime deducting what to make of the scene they had just witnessed.

The woman put her hand on the child's forehead. "Well he does feel hot. I guess I'll take some Calpol, then. And can you tell me how to get to that surgery?" The two girls started protesting immediately and the boy had tears running down his hot little face.

Poor little chap, thought John to himself. It's no fun to be ill on your holiday.

X X X X

The two men said nothing more to each other until the nicotine patches were acquired and they found themselves back outside. John gazed at Sherlock with admiration and gave him a mock salute. "You are amazing; you know that don't you? If you hadn't said something that woman would have dragged her sick child back to the beach and he would just have become more ill."

Sherlock shook his head. "I'm more interested in that doctor. Very unusual to diagnose patients in the middle of a shop." He opened the packet and tore open the wrappers on not one but three patches. Glancing around for lurking paparazzi, he ducked behind a post box, rolled up his sleeve and applied the patches, taking a deep cleansing breath as he waited for the stimulant to take effect.

"Not much of a bedside manner, that's for sure," said John, taking the wrappers from his friend and looking around for a bin. "My boss would sack me if I treated a patient like that. But he was bang on with the diagnosis, no thanks to your comment."

"A reasonably good diagnostician, although, of course, scarlet fever is hardly a challenge. Posh accent indicates a public school education. No wedding ring, yet he obviously lives with a lactating female and a very small infant, given that he bought nappies, cocoa butter, liquid vitamins and calcium supplements along with various medical supplies and hair spray. His suit is bespoke; it had to come from London – not much call for that kind of tailoring in a village like this. His shoes are not practical for the village but look to be hand-sewn Italian made. Doesn't care for the village then – even a doctor would have no particular need to have a London wardrobe out here unless he wanted to make a point to NOT fit in. Must have come from money or had a more lucrative career at some point – a village GP's pay packet doesn't stretch to handmade Italian shoes very often Nearly military haircut, though he doesn't have a military bearing like you do, John – evidence of control, repression and a blatant disregard for fashion. And his name rings a bell. She called him Doctor Ellingham. Where have I heard that name before?"

"Did you say Ellingham? There was an older bloke at Bart's when I was a student. Taught surgery. Right old bastard he was, but he knew his stuff. Supposedly had a son who was a high-flyer at St. Thomas's. The younger Doctor Ellingham was older than I was, already a registrar when I started my medical course, but even then everyone had heard of him. You don't suppose that was the son, do you? What would he be doing running a surgery in Cornwall?"

"That, my dear John, is an excellent question." Sherlock strode down the narrow cobbled street with a purpose, apparently re-invigorated by his dose of nicotine.

"So where are we off to next?" asked, John, hurrying to keep up with the taller man's longer stride.

"Police station, to see about a snake." Sherlock stopped and looked at the harbor. "Look, the tide has come in, right where you said I should park. Good thing I didn't take your advice."

Sure enough, a whole line of cars parked by the water were now submerged up to their hubcaps. Several tourists were waving helplessly from the high ground near the hotel. A number of the locals seemed to be tittering.

"How did you . . ." John blustered. "Never mind. You're Sherlock Holmes; of course you knew the tidal patterns in Cornwall for today." He shook his head. "Anything else about this case you'd care to tell me?"

"All in good time, John. All in good time."

To be continued. . .


	7. Chapter 7

**Convergence of the Twain, a Doc Martin and Sherlock Crossover Story**

Doc Martin belongs to Buffalo Pictures. Sherlock belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. I own nothing but my imagination.

Set between episodes 3 and 4 of Doc Martin series 5 and between episodes 1 and 2 of Sherlock series 2

**Author's Notes:**

My apologies for the delay in continuing the story; I was overly distracted by the Olympics .

To the Doc Martin fans who may be less familiar with Sherlock, please remember that in this universe, there is no famous literary character from the past named Sherlock Holmes. Ergo, Martin's unfamiliarity with the detective's name only means he hasn't been reading the recent London papers or following the blogosphere.

This story, and this chapter in particular, owes a great deal to my ten year old daughter whose fascination with the Arthur Conan Doyle stories led us to the BBC Sherlock series, and who created the original female character who is introduced in this chapter. Thanks to C for inspiring me and pushing me to write this tale.

Many thanks to all of you who have read, reviewed, alerted and favorite this story. I am grateful to all of you and hope you enjoy this latest installment.

**Chapter 7 – Deductions**

Morwenna looked up from the reception desk as a woman in a broad-brimmed hat tentatively pushed open the front door to the surgery and shuffled into the room, dragging a small boy by the hand with two young girls trailing grumpily behind her.

"Erm - Hullo? I'm Sarah Conroy? The, um, doctor, saw my son in the chemist's shop and told us to come at three?" Her tone was uncertain and the look on her face indicated she would rather be just about anywhere on Earth than in this surgery. She glanced nervously around the room, taking in the outdated décor and worn furniture, neither of which seemed to inspire much confidence.

"In the chemist?" asked Morwenna, looking puzzled. That would be strange, even for Doc Martin. She handed the woman a registration card and a pen, recognizing immediately that this woman, whoever she might be, wasn't a local. Not with the whole family dressed in swim suits for a trip to the surgery.

"Yes, he told me Nicky had scarlet fever – I just thought he was sunburnt." She gestured to the small boy beside her. "I mean what was I to do? I stopped off in the chemist's for some aloe before we headed back to the beach and suddenly some weird toff in a black suit started going on about why would I put sunscreen on only two of the kids and how it wasn't that sunny and then the doctor was sticking a thermometer into Nicky's mouth and . . . well it was all a bit confusing actually."

Morwenna saw Mrs. Conroy look up expectantly at the Doctor who was striding through the door from his consulting room at this point; and noticed how the woman's face fell when he paid her no mind and went directly to the filing cabinet.

"A toff in a black suit? I wonder who that was." Though Morwenna had been the surgery receptionist for only two weeks, she had lived in Portwenn her whole life and that description didn't sound like anyone she knew. Besides the Doc, the undertaker and the vicar were the only ones who regularly wore a suit, and neither of them would be described as a toff by any stretch of the imagination, even by a grockle.

"I don't know," said the woman, writing furiously on the form. "We're just visiting - came over from Gloucestershire yesterday to start our holiday."

"We live in Lower Slaughter," said the little boy, to no one in particular before settling himself on the window seat.

Martin looked up from the patient notes he was filing and Morwenna looked at him expectantly, assuming he would chime in about the identity of the black-suited mystery man.

Martin guessed what she wanted to know. "No idea. Never seen him before =. Dark hair; looked to be thirty-something." He paused. "Very observant, though."

Morwenna rolled her eyes. The Doc was not known for remembering people other than by their symptoms; that much she knew for sure. A mysterious man in a black suit, now that sounded quite interesting – any new, hopefully eligible, man in Portwenn was newsworthy, as far as she was concerned.

The girls giggled behind their hands. "He said he was 'Holmes Sherlock Holmes,'" they chorused in unison, reveling in exaggerating their vowels in imitation of a fruity, posh accent.

"What a STUPID name!" said the taller one.

"Yeah, STUPID!" echoed the younger.

The mother gave them a stern look.

"Did you say Sherlock Holmes?" asked Morwenna, excitedly. "The real Sherlock Holmes? He's here? Here in the village?"

"Who is that, then?" asked Martin.

Morwenna's face registered shock at Martin's ignorance. "He's that famous London detective! He's been in all the magazines and in the papers." Morwenna dug in her shoulder bag and came out with several tabloids and a glossy women's magazine. After a moment she found what she was looking for and waved one at Martin. "See – is this the bloke you saw?"

Morwenna pushed the magazine across the desk to Martin so he could get a good look at the photo on the cover. "It might be," he said, after a moment. "He wasn't wearing that hat but he was with a man who looked somewhat like him," he said, pointing at the celebrated photo of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson exiting a London theater wearing odd hats as ineffective disguises.

"Imagine that – a real celebrity here in Portwenn!" Morwenna sighed heavily, gazing dreamily at the photograph. "And he was at Mrs. Tishell's! If she hadn't sacked me, I might have been the one to serve him."

Martin snorted. "Back to work, now, and put the reading material away while you're on the clock," he ordered. "Send them through as soon as she's finished the registration form. And don't let the boy near anybody – he's infectious." He turned on his heel and walked into the consulting room without a backwards glance.

Morwenna rolled her eyes again. She thumbed through the magazines for just a moment more before returning them to her bag. A girl could dream, couldn't she?

** X**

"Two pints of Tribute, please," John asked the beefy publican as he drummed his fingers idly on the bar. "And you wouldn't happen to have a couple of pasties or anything? We missed lunch."

"Nah, no pasties left. Lunch stopped at three and dinner won't be on until after six." After a long pause, he added, "I could do you up a ploughman's maybe, if you like." The barman passed John the first pint as he spoke.

"Ta, that'd be just the ticket." John placed some notes on the bar and looked around, taking a long draught of his beer. Ahh. Nothing like it on a warm day.

Including Sherlock, who was typing furiously on his Smartphone over by the window, there were scarcely twenty people in the cavernous pub. Two blokes in rough clothes sat at a table in the corner with an animal carrier at their feet, the kind you'd use to take a cat to the vet's; a handful of teenage girls gossiped around the fruit machine; a family of weary holiday-makers, who looked American by the state of their trainers, drank Cokes and thumbed through their guidebook; a couple of fishermen in oilskins drank silently and steadily on one side of the bar. There was only one other person on this side of the bar – a woman in a soft blue trouser suit scrolling furiously through something on her iPad, an empty glass beside her handbag on the bar in front of her. A brunette, John noticed. Long, dark hair fell in soft curls over her shoulders. Pretty, he thought. He smiled in her direction but she was still engrossed with whatever was on the screen in front of her.

John was interrupted in his inspection of the woman when the second pint was placed in front of him. He nodded to the barman who had turned to serve a man with the reddest mustache John had ever seen and a grubby white bandage on his arm. With a backward admiring glance at the woman at the bar, John took the pints back to the table where Sherlock sat.

His flatmate held his hand up with the palm facing John and mumbled something that could have been "just a minute" when John put the pint in front of him, and John knew better than to interrupt. Taking another sip of his beer, John idly glanced up at on the telly mounted in the corner and saw a perky blonde reporter standing in front of the sign for Portwenn Harbor.

_Prime Minister David Cameron and his family returned to Downing Street today after a glorious ten day holiday in Portwenn. But for celebrity spotters in North Cornwall, all is not lost. Keep your eyes peeled for celebrated London detective, Sherlock Holmes, darling of New Scotland Yard. The dashing Mr. Holmes was seen arriving at the Bodmin Parkway train station this morning in the company of his constant companion, Doctor John Watson. No official word on whether the trip is business or pleasure, but the two men seemed in high spirits as they drove off in a hired Jaguar late this morning. I don't know about you, Ken, but I'll be watching to see how these two eligible bachelors spend their seaside holiday. This is Nicola Bishop reporting live from Portwenn._

John snorted as videotape of their arrival in Cornwall rolled across the screen in living color. So much for keeping a low profile. He took another drink and therefore missed the sly glances that came their way from other patrons in the pub, and the look of consternation on the face of the man whom the bartender was serving.

The waiter delivered a plate of cheese and ham with pickles and half a loaf of bread with a flourish. John nodded, "Cheers, mate," and dug right in. He nudged the plate to the middle of the table as a suggestion to Sherlock that eating something might be a good idea, but he didn't really expect the detective to respond. That would be typical. This was not such a bad result as John was clearly hungry enough to tuck into the whole thing.

Sherlock looked up from his mobile. "She's single."

John swallowed. "Who is? The news dolly?"

"The girl at the bar. She's single."

John looked around wildly, realizing the brunette he had noticed earlier was the only person who could possibly be described as 'the girl at the bar'. "How could you possibly know that?"

Sherlock took a drink of his beer and gave John a bemused smile. "You mean besides the lack of a ring? She's glued to a dating website on her iPad for starters. Not exactly the behavior of someone in a committed relationship is it? She fancies you."

John sputtered "You can't know that!"

"You didn't see the shufti she gave your arse."

"Sherlock!" John felt his ears turn pink.

"Well go on then. Make yourself useful. Show us some of that Three Continents Watson charm. You know you want to."

"How would that be useful? What about the case?"

Sherlock gave John his patented exasperated look. "She's a police officer. In plain clothes which makes it likely she's CID. When we asked that idiotic constable about doing a post mortem on the snake, he told us he had to check with 'the detective' and I don't think he was referring to me."

"How . . ."

"Honestly John, you were ogling her. How did you _not_ notice the radio in her handbag, the outline of her warrant card showing through her jacket pocket and the handcuffs clipped to the back of her belt? Not to mention the shoes."

"Shoes? What do shoes have to do with anything?"

"John, she's wearing a trouser suit – business clothes. But look at her shoes. No pumps, no tasteful wedge heels, not even ballet flats. No, she's wearing rubber-soled, suede lace-ups. No one's idea of a fashion statement. This is a woman who needs to be able to sprint after a suspect." Sherlock shook his head, apparently reminding himself of John's inferior brain power.

John closed his mouth. He hadn't looked past her hair, her figure or the curve of her cheek, of course. Like any normal bloke. Which Sherlock wasn't - not by a long shot.

"Go on then – chat her up, see what you can find out. Bonus points if you can finagle a look at the snake corpse."

John looked over at the woman. Maybe she _was _looking back at him, from under those long, dark lashes. He wondered what color her eyes were.

"Well. . ."

"I'm off to see a man about a dog." And with that, Sherlock was gone. John presumed the detective was looking for the loo, but you never knew with him. In this case, there might just be a dog.

John polished off his pint and wiped his hands on his jeans. No time like the present. He walked to the bar and stood closer to the object of his attentions than he had before.

"Another round?" asked the publican.

"Just one this time." John turned and flashed a smile. "And one for the lady."

She looked up at him, startled.

Blue. Her eyes were blue, he thought, blue like the waves crashing against the harbor outside. He nodded to let her know yes, he did mean her.

"Oh, no. I'm not drinking. Still on the job." She gave a little shrug, which John found endearing, as she pointed at the little notebook on the bar in front of her.

"Well it's a warm day and you've obviously had something in that glass. A lemonade perhaps?" John had a pang of guilt for approaching her on Sherlock's instructions, but it certainly wasn't a hardship, not by a long shot. And it had been a dry spell on the dating front. After Sherlock chased Jeanette off with his rudeness at the ill-fated Christmas party, John hadn't had the guts to bring anyone else back to their flat.

"Alright then, another Ribena. And thank you." She did have a lovely smile.

The bartender nodded to indicate he'd heard the order, and rolled his eyes, clearly disapproving of serving Ribena to anyone over the age of six.

"I'm John, John Watson." He hoped he sounded friendly and not creepy.

She held out her hand. "Maia Rivers. Detective Inspector Maia Rivers. And before you pretend to be impressed, I know just who you are, Dr. Watson." She looked bemused as she glanced up at the television.

"Oh, well . . ." he wasn't quite sure what to say. He took her hand and shook it in a business-like fashion. He liked the way her hand felt – small and cool without being clammy. She wasn't nervous, even if he was.

The barman brought John's pint, a dusty bottle of Ribena and a glass. He jerked his head to indicate the ice bucket on the end of the bar and went back to polishing pint glasses.

"Ice?" John asked. He noticed her blouse was the same color as her eyes. She really should wear that color every day.

Maia nodded and handed over her glass.

"Do you live in the village, then?" John asked Maia as he used the tongs to carefully place three ice cubes in the glass.

"No, I'm from Plymouth. I'm here on secondment, actually, to help investigate a rash of pick-pocketing."

"Pick-pocketing? Really? I'd better keep an eye on my wallet, then, hadn't I?"

"I would recommend it." There was a twinkle in her eye as she said that which John found completely captivating.

She took a sip of her drink. "So are you in Cornwall for business or pleasure, Dr. Watson?"

"Well, not sure really. Sherlock's got a case and I came along to get a bit of a break from London, really." He hoped she wouldn't see through that little lie. He wanted her to like him, and not just because Sherlock needed information from her.

"What kind of a case, then?"

He flushed a bit. This would take a bit of finessing. "I dunno the details. Something about a dead American in London. Scotland Yard and all that." He tried to avoid mentioning any connection to Cornwall, and realized he needed to change the subject quickly to avoid suspicions. "So would you take pity on a stranger and have dinner with me tonight? Sherlock's busy with his work, and I'm at loose ends and new in town." He gave what he hoped was a charming smile and leaned over the bar, closer to her.

She laughed at this. "You don't beat around the bush, then, do you?"

"I suppose not." He was getting desperate and decided it was now or never. The Army card, he thought, would be the right play. "In Afghanistan, you know, I learned to seize the moment – life's too short to wait around for something to happen. Or to have dinner with a pretty lady . . ." He purposefully let his voice trail off and gave her the look Harry had always called his 'puppy dog eyes.'

"Alright," said D.I. Rivers, raising her hands in mock surrender. "It's not like I'm dying to eat another pasty at the police station with P.C. Penhale. There's a place up Rosscarrock hill called The Large Restaurant. Shall I meet you there, about eight o'clock?"

"Brilliant! I'll see you there, then, Maia."

"Right. Good. I'll see you later. Must dash, now, though. Crime waits for no woman or something like that." She slid her iPad into her bag and gave John a little wave before heading towards the door.

John stood and looked at her leaving with a silly grin on his face and then took his beer back to the table. He noticed the two men in the back corner were fiddling with the pet carrier and wondered what the landlord would have to say about a cat in the pub. He was enjoying the last bit of ham from his lunch when Sherlock sidled up to the table in that cat-like way of his and sat down across from John.

"So?" Sherlock nodded to John as he took a sip of his beer.

"What?"

"So did you speak with her? Come on, I haven't got all day, you know."

"Yes, I spoke to her. Yes, you were right. She's D.I. Maia Rivers, sent over from Plymouth to deal with a rash of pick-pocketing down here. Oh, and I'm having dinner with her tonight." John looked smugly at Sherlock.

Sherlock raised one eyebrow in response. "Excellent. I've booked us in here at the pub," he added, pulling from his pocket two keys, each attached to a large brass number to indicate the room it opened. "I'm in 6 and you're in 7 – I took the one with the harbor view but only a shower cubicle and they put you in the one with the full bath." He handed the seven to John and returned the six to his pocket.

"Right. I think I'm going to get my bag and avail myself of that bath right now . . ."

"Now? But I've just found out where the snake's corpse is. The pub owner has a cold storage facility nearby that the police have requisitioned."

"Sherlock. The dead snake isn't going anywhere while I am in the bath."

Just then, Sherlock grabbed at his coat pocket. "Bloody hell! He took my key!" He spun around and John leapt up to follow him, looking wildly for the pickpocket.

"It's a MONKEY!" shouted Sherlock, dashing to the door of the pub.

John saw a small monkey scampering away with Sherlock in pursuit. The animal turned and chattered at Sherlock, almost taunting him, holding up the brass number 6. Sherlock lunged after it, and John hurried to catch up.

Just then he heard a whistle. The monkey stopped, dropped the key and nimbly clambered up, disappearing up the drainpipe of the pub.

Sherlock picked up the key, examining it while John ran around the corner to see if there was any sign of the monkey. As far as he could see, there were no open windows and no indication of who had whistled.

"Better tell your D.I. Rivers she's looking for a monkey," muttered Sherlock.

John was speechless.

To be continued . . .


	8. Chapter 8

**Convergence of the Twain, a Doc Martin and Sherlock Crossover Story**

Doc Martin belongs to Buffalo Pictures. Sherlock belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. I own nothing but my imagination.

Set between episodes 3 and 4 of Doc Martin series 5 and between episodes 1 and 2 of Sherlock series 2

**Chapter 8 – Evidence**

Martin was not pleased. In reality, 'not pleased' substantially understated how much he loathed the fact that he was once again sitting in The Large Restaurant, expected to eat a meal cooked by a mediocre plumber or, worse yet, one of his so-called "chefs." Who could forget Mick the felon, the mad badger woman, or Mandy of the stolen contraceptives? Not to mention the whole bloody salad incident. No, Martin was sure nothing good could come of dining at Bert's.

But here he sat, well past his usual dinner hour, facing Louisa across a tiny table with a view of the harbor. The baby was asleep in his basket on the chair beside Louisa and she was blathering on again about baby names while they waited for their food to be served.

Their presence here was the product of Louisa's exhaustion and her unfamiliarity with Martin's cooker She'd put a shepherd's pie in the oven before going upstairs to look after the baby, without recalling that she needed to turn TWO knobs on the cooker to heat the oven – one to switch it on and one to set the correct temperature. After closing up the surgery later than he would have liked, he'd discovered Louisa giving the baby a bath upstairs, completely unaware that her planned supper was sitting raw in an unheated oven. There had been tears, and now there was penance in the form of dining out.

"I can't remember, have I asked you about Stephen? We could spell it either way – with a v or ph if you prefer." She looked at him expectantly. "Stephen is strong, traditional name, like you said you wanted."

"But he'll be called Steve which is dreadful," Martin protested. "It sounds like a brand of washing up liquid."

She sighed. "Okay, but Martin, this is getting ridiculous. He's nearly three weeks old; he needs a name." She stroked the baby's hand fondly.

Martin knew the fondness was not directed at him at this particular moment. He sighed. "How about Edward?" He'd never thought he would be particular about naming a baby, but honestly he couldn't imagine having an offspring named Steve - or Griffin, or Kevin, or Brendan or Owen, for that matter. They weren't Irish or Welsh, for God's sake, so he was mystified by her fascination with Celtic names.

"Well, I did consider that. But he'd be Eddie. Or maybe we'd call him Teddy? Does he look like a Teddy?" She paused to contemplate the baby again. "But then people would think his name was Theodore, wouldn't they?" She sighed again. "It's all so complicated."

Martin was saved from answering by the arrival of a plate of what was pretending to be the grilled cod he had ordered. It looked suspiciously like Bert had taken the haddock he used for fish and chips and microwaved it or something to get the white gelatinous mess on the plate, garnished jauntily by an enormous sprig of dill and several insipid lemon slices. Great, just bloody fantastic.

He glanced at Louisa's plate. She'd ordered pasta primavera and received what looked like spaghetti Bolognese with chunks of chopped aubergine and courgette floating in the runny sauce. He was uncertain as to which of them had made the better selection.

She caught his eye and smiled weakly, and raised her fork before twirling it in her pasta and taking a bite. She seemed to have a grim determination to overlook any failings in the kitchen department which Martin found mystifying. As Martin began eating his fish, he noticed Bert escorting another couple to a nearby table. The short man with the sandy hair looked familiar but Martin couldn't place him. He didn't think he'd ever seen the dark haired woman before. Bert fussed a bit with the menus and some kind of "welcome to the establishment" nonsense before disappearing into the kitchen.

Martin turned his attention back to his meal, although it still bothered him that he couldn't remember the man seated behind Louisa. It seemed somehow important to place his face.

"The Knightlys seem to be having a nice evening," remarked Louisa, nodding to the table on their left.

Martin looked over, seeing the diabetic bank manager and her husband, the hypertensive boat mechanic, digging into plates of fish and chips with relish. "Neither one of them should be eating like that! I swear I don't know why I even bother giving medical advice seeing as how no one seems inclined to follow it!"

"Martin." Louisa's tone was ever so slightly scolding and Martin flushed.

Over Louisa's shoulder, he saw the unknown couple in animated conversation. Looking at the back of the man's head, Martin realized the stranger was actually one of the men he'd encountered in the chemist's – not Morwenna's famous detective but the other one. He idly wondered again what the pair was doing in Portwenn and who the woman was.

"Martin!"

Louisa sounded cross. He looked back at her immediately to discern what the problem was.

"Who are you looking at?"

"What? Oh, nothing. I just realized I saw that man in the chemist's this afternoon. He was with a London detective Morwenna tells me is quite well-known. He, er, pointed out some facts about a boy that led me to diagnose scarlet fever."

"Really? Is he a doctor?"

"Apparently the detective isn't but his companion – the man behind you - is. The detective . . . whatever his name was . . . works with Scotland Yard in some capacity." He paused, and then added, "Sherlock! That's what his name is! I knew it had to be something unusual."

"You must be kidding. What kind of a name would Sherlock be for our baby?" Louisa gave him an outraged glare.

"No, not the baby, the DETECTIVE."

As Louisa took another bite of her dinner, seeming mollified for the moment, Martin heard the voices at the next table rise – an argument appeared to be brewing. He furtively watched in fascination as the woman's face grew ever more animated and the man started gesturing with his hands. It was something of a relief to Martin to realize that he and Louisa were not the only couple who sometimes clashed. He couldn't help overhearing the conversation; the other couple's voices were rising as the argument picked up steam. He couldn't make heads or tails of the words floating his direction, his ear picking up only fragments like "bleeding monkey" and "how dare you" and "Sherlock's case" and "sabotage my investigation."

"Martin!" Louisa's tone was shrill and it interrupted his observation of the other couple. "Martin, look at me!" She was clearly agitated and he knew he needed to look at her, if only to reassure her. However, at that very moment the woman at the other table threw her glass of wine in her companion's face with an angry glare and a torrent of shouts. He was mesmerized as he watched the train wreck of a dinner date at the next table unfold like a crap reality telly programme.

Louisa craned her head over her shoulder at exactly the wrong moment -the moment when the doctor dripping in wine had ducked down to find the serviette he'd dropped on the floor – so her view, the one she apparently supposed Martin had been staring at, was of a beautiful dark haired woman with fire in her eyes, leaning across the table and displaying impressive curves under her gauzy blue blouse.

Louisa looked back at Martin, gasped, and then gave a muffled cry with her hand over her mouth. She sobbed something about being as much use to him as a chocolate teapot, and then pushed back her chair and grabbed the baby's basket. With tears running down her face, she ducked past Bert and rushed out of the restaurant right on the heels of the other woman, before Martin could do anything more than call out her name.

Martin fumbled in his pocket for his wallet and threw some notes on the table as Bert bustled over to the other table with a stack of bar towels and a sympathetic ear.

Bert nodded to him as he sidled past the other table on his way out. "Better mend your fences with Louisa, Doc. Don't worry; we're open late if you want to come back for dessert." And then the older man gave Martin a lascivious wink. With a disgusted grunt, Martin strode across the terrace on his way to the stairs up to the road, but not before exchanging a brief and possibly sympathetic nod with the other scorned doctor in the restaurant, the one with red wine all over his tattersall shirt.

X

John dragged himself back to the pub and up the stairs towards his room. He looked forward at long last to a hot bath and bed, something to salvage this evening that had turned to from promising to complete pants at a mind-boggling pace. He'd been awake for nearly forty hours and he knew it was long since beginning to show. Looking down at his stained shirt and trousers, he wondered idly what else was in the carryall he'd hastily packed at silly o'clock this morning before Sherlock had dragged him to the train.

When he reached the door of room number 7, he found it ajar. He sighed. He supposed Sherlock must have remembered to bring his lock-picking kit, even if he'd likely forgotten essentials such as toothpaste and clean socks. What kind of a surprise would the mad genius have left in his room this time, he wondered?

"Sherlock!" he called as he pushed the door open and entered the room.

"John? I didn't expect you back so soon. What happened to your date with the delightful Detective Inspector Rivers?" Sherlock's voice was coming from the bathroom, and it sounded a little strange.

"Sherlock? What are you doing in there?"

"Oh, er, just a moment. I'll be right out."

John could tell from his flat-mate's voice that something was up. It was the same voice Sherlock used when trying to deflect John's attention from an explosion in the kitchen or bullet holes in the sitting room wall. "Sherlock . . ." he said, with just a touch of exasperation.

John opened the bathroom door and found Sherlock standing there, blocking the entry, mysterious rusty stains on his slim cut white silk shirt – boy, the dry cleaners were going to have to work magic to get that clean. "Sherlock what have you done? And what is that smell?" He gagged at the stench.

"I didn't expect you back so soon, I . . ."

"Sherlock, what have you been doing? And why are you doing it here?"

"I needed the bathtub . . . for the necropsy" Sherlock's hand came out of his pocket, and he brandished an elaborate Swiss Army knife with a positively enormous blade.

"Sherlock . . ." There was menace in John's voice as he pushed the taller man aside so he could see into the bathtub which was spattered with blood and filled with coils of what appeared to be snakeskin. John's army training had taught him to breathe through his mouth to avoid the noxious odors, but even battlefield surgery hadn't accustomed him to finding this kind of gore in the bath of a perfectly nice Cornish pub.

"While you kept DI Rivers occupied, I was presented with the perfect opportunity to retrieve the snake from cold storage. It has been very interesting – I was right about the species of snake, and I've identified its last meal." Sherlock was almost gleeful.

John shook his head and rubbed his fists in his eyes. He took a deep cleansing breath and immediately gagged again. "Sherlock – I just, just don't care right now. I am exhausted and covered in wine after being thoroughly humiliated in a public place and was looking forward more than you can possibly imagine to a bath and my bed and I arrive home to find you've turned my room into a mortuary!"

"Not your whole room – just your bathtub." Sherlock as always was logical even when he was being an utter prat.

"You're right. Sherlock, you're right." John exhaled heavily. "Give me your key."

"What?"

"I'll leave you to your bathtub mortuary. I'm taking your room." John held out his hand.

"But you could assist me . . ."

"No, Sherlock, I'm done. Done for today at least. I am going to bed and as a physician I recommend that you get some sleep too."

John took Sherlock's key from the pocket of his jacket hanging on the chair in the bedroom and grabbed his things from the luggage stand without looking back at his bloodstained and bewildered friend. "I'll see you in the morning."

"John?"

John ignored Sherlock and crossed the corridor to room 6. He sighed when he opened the door which bore clear evidence of his flat mate's peripatetic activities since their arrival– how Sherlock managed to create so much chaos in such a short time he would never know. He thought about returning the key to Sherlock but figured if the git had picked one lock, he could bloody-well pick this one if he wanted to get back in.

He shoved Sherlock's case off the bench at the end of the bed and opened his own to take out his wash bag and pyjamas before heading to the ensuite bath. He stopped to open the window part way and take a deep breath of sea air to eradicate the smell of Sherlock's disgusting necropsy. In the bathroom, he stripped off his wine stained clothing, and stepped under the spray of the shower.

Ahh. He needed this, he really did. The long day topped off with the disastrous evening had left him feeling spent and hollow. Damn. He'd had only modest expectations for his date with the lovely police inspector – dinner with someone who actually consumed food, a mild flirtation, perhaps interesting conversation about something other than snake venom, maybe even a polite kiss goodnight. He should have known it would all go pear-shaped because of Sherlock.

In retrospect, he should have mentioned Sherlock's conclusions about the monkey as the troublesome pickpocket earlier, but he figured there wasn't much hunting she could do in the dark, and he selfishly hadn't wanted her to cut dinner short to get back to work. That had been a significant tactical error. Whether she'd ever speak to him again was seriously in doubt at the moment.

After sluicing away the wine and all other residue of his endless day, he toweled off and dressed for bed. He stopped only to quickly clean his teeth and swallow a couple paracetamol for the exhaustion headache pounding in his temples. He switched off the lights and slid into the bed with a sigh of relief.

Sprawled on his back with his left hand tucked under the duvet and his right dangling over the edge of the bed, he shut his eyes. The sheets felt crisp and clean, the pillow was cool against his cheek, and the sound of the pounding surf outside the window was soothing. He felt the darkness envelop him like a velvet cocoon as he drifted off to sleep.

The next thing he sensed was white hot pain shooting up his arm and stopping his breath. He was no stranger to nightmares and he could tell immediately that this was real; no dream could light his flesh on fire like this, digging into every sense so deeply that all he could register was the sickening waves of angry pain washing over him. It could have been a moment since he'd fallen into bed or hours; he had no idea how long he'd slept or if he even had. He struggled to open his eyes when he heard screaming, taking a long moment before he realized it was his own voice.

"Fuck . . . bloody, fucking FUCK!" He felt as though his blood had turned to acid, and his heart hammered in his chest. He struggled to draw ragged breaths of the cool night air into his laboring lungs. Eyes wide, pupils dilated in the darkness he swung his head wildly, searching for the source of his torment.

He gasped in shock as he saw the creature's eyes glinting red in the dimness and its fangs sunk deep into his wrist. A snake. Shit. Where the hell had that come from? Sherlock's specimen was decidedly dead in the bathtub in the other room.

He flailed wildly, hoping to dislodge the gigantic snake that had attacked his trailing arm and still clung by the skin of its teeth to John. When the beast released its jaw, heavy, writhing coils dangling in the air from John's arm, the doctor rolled painfully to the far edge of the bed, shaking and struggling to control his fear. Maybe it was only the memory of his tedious discussions with Sherlock about snake venom over the course of the last two days, but John had a deep conviction that this was no ordinary snake, nor an ordinary bite.

Through the haze of panic and sleep and sheer agony, he knew he needed help immediately if there was any chance this was the type of snake he and Sherlock had been investigating. He racked his brain for the protocol for a venomous snake bite. Surely he'd had training – but all he could summon up in his frenzied mind was the scene of John Wayne sucking the venom out of his beautiful companion in True Grit. That wasn't right, but for the life of him he couldn't remember the first thing he'd been taught. Keeping his eyes on the snake, he fumbled on the bedside table with his left hand, blindly scrambling for his mobile.

Thank God Sherlock's number was the last he'd called. He managed to scroll to it and press send and then silently begged Sherlock to overcome his infuriating preference for texting and answer the bloody phone.

He hurt, damn he hurt, and with the fear and disorientation and the concentration needed just to keep breathing he wasn't sure he could speak. And he had to warn Sherlock about the snake – where would they be if that cocky git waltzed in here and got bit himself by the damn thing. Christ - it was still down on the floor, undulating in a corner. As the phone rang, John's body continued shaking so hard his teeth chattered, and he wondered if it was from terror or shock or neurological deficit.

"John – I thought you were going to sleep." Sherlock's voice was filled with annoyance and John could picture the look on his face.

"Shh . . . Shhe . . ." Fuck. His voice was a mere whisper; he hadn't imagined it would be this hard to speak.

"Couldn't you have texted? I wouldn't need both hands - I was right in the middle of dissecting the venom sac."

"Sheeeerlock. Help!" It was taking every ounce of strength to grit his teeth and try to get the words out; overcoming the sense of doom and the feeling he was being crushed. He needed to warn him. He knew there was something he needed to say. Their own personal danger code. If he could just get it out then Sherlock would come but remain alert to danger.

"John, John? What is the matter? I can't hear what you're saying?" There was mild concern in the detective's voice now, but John judged it wasn't enough for Sherlock to be arsed to cross the corridor to come to his aid.

It was now or never. His life literally depended on being able to get out the words. "Vatican . . . Vatican Cameos . . ."

John dropped the mobile and fell back on the bed and didn't hear Sherlock's sharp intake of breath or his commanding voice calling "John? John, I'm coming . . .

To be continued . . .

Author's note: A necropsy is the animal equivalent of an autopsy.


	9. Chapter 9

**Convergence of the Twain, a Doc Martin and Sherlock Crossover Story**

Doc Martin belongs to Buffalo Pictures. Sherlock belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. I own nothing but my imagination.

Set between episodes 3 and 4 of Doc Martin series 5 and between episodes 1 and 2 of Sherlock series 2

**Author's Notes:**

Thanks to all of you for sticking with me. This chapter has been exceeding difficult for me – it is my first time writing from inside Sherlock's head and I found it to be quite a trip.

Confidential to the guest who complained that I was posting one chapter at a time: I couldn't respond by PM to your comment as you did not login when you commented. You are welcome to wait until this is finished to read it. I will mark it complete when it is. I will continue to post chapter by chapter as I write as the interaction with the reviewers is, for me, a big part of the writing process. But I thank you for reading and for taking the time to comment thoughtfully. All feedback is important to me.

**Chapter 9 – **_**Serpentes**_

Sherlock's heart leapt in his chest when John didn't respond, and adrenaline pumped through his veins. _John_. _Danger_. That was all it took for Sherlock to pack the snake and its fascinating venom sac into a mental box, relegated to a remote and dusty cupboard in his mind palace.

He spun on his heel, mind racing. Medical emergency, _John Hamish Watson, age 39, non-smoker, no known heart defects or serious allergies . . ._ overindulgence in alcohol or other mind-altering substances . . . _known to drink socially but rarely to the point of incapacity, illegal drugs highly unlikely – there was virtually no possibility John could have hidden that sort of predilection from him,, the rate of abuse of prescription drugs among medical professionals was measured to be . . ._ interrupted burglary. . . _room contents limited to shabby pub furniture and two cases, John's containing one Army issue washbag with toiletries from Boots, three tartan button-up shirts, size 15 ½ x 32, jeans, inseam 28, khaki trousers without turn-ups, three white vee-neck vests, three pairs of blue cotton boxers, four pairs of brown wool socks, green striped pyjama bottoms, grey t-shirt . . _. enemy attack . . . _known adversaries: Ella Harper, therapist with no prior history of violence, various Army veterans, the Tesco CHIP and PIN machine. . ._ vengeful ex-girlfriend . . . _Sarah, Jeanette, that blonde who laughed like a horse_. . . Thirty-eight possibilities for John's call came immediately to mind. No, wait, thirty-nine.

And John was sleeping in Sherlock's room. Whatever was happening had been intended for him, of that he was sure. John didn't have independent enemies. That cut it down to twenty-five possibilities. _James Moriarty, currently in the custody of Her Majesty's government but not without resources . . ._

As his mind whipped through the matrix of possibilities at lightning speed, Sherlock opened the drawer in the bedside cabinet where he'd seen John stash his SIG (_Army issue sidearm, unregistered, eight 9mm rounds ...)_ before leaving on his date with the local Detective Inspector. He checked the magazine and the safety, and then slid the gun into his waistband at the small of his back. He toed-off his shoes to improve his chances of a silent approach.

Rapidly, he opened the door a crack and glanced up and down the empty corridor before crossing to room 6. He fished in his trouser pocket for his lock pick, and then frowned when he saw that the door was ajar. Examining it further for evidence of a forced entry, he noted that the lock on the door knob was still engaged, meaning that the door had been opened from the inside. _Hypothesis: John knew his attacker and opened the door . . . Hypothesis: Alternate means of entry to the room . . . Hypothesis: An attacker with a key . . ._ Twenty-two possibilities, then. He pushed the door in with his shoulder to avoid disturbing any useful fingerprints.

The room was dark and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimness. Whatever was going on in there had taken place in the dark unless John or his adversary had cut the lights for some reason afterwards. The range of possible causes on his list now narrowed to fourteen. _Burglary, assassination, seduction gone wrong . . ._

"John . . ." he hissed. "John?" His whisper echoed in the silence. _Where was John and why wasn't he saying anything?_ None of the possible causes was comforting. While Sherlock's hands were steady, the neurons in his brain were firing at a dizzying speed and his pulse galloped along like a racehorse. _Find John, find John, find John . . ._

Sherlock froze when he heard a moan from the far corner of the room and realized John must be lying on the floor on the far side of the bed, and seriously incapacitated. _Had John been poisoned by his date? Poison was a woman's weapon. Was she actually a police officer? Why hadn't he verified her credentials?_ He didn't sense anyone else in the room, but he raised the gun and released the safety to be prepared if he was wrong before switching on the overhead light.

Shit. The bed sheets were blood-stainedand gory in the bright light, an image searing itself into his retina. So much blood. _Not a scratch or a nosebleed but a life-threatening wound._ A ceramic lamp had been knocked off the bureau below the window. No mere misunderstanding, then. An altercation of some kind. A weapon. _He hadn't heard the sound of a gunshot, possibly beaten – the proverbial blunt instrumentobject, or stabbed . . ._ What was the probability that the blood wasn't John's?

His whirring brain cataloged the window, which was opened six inches (_too small an opening for an adult but perhaps a child . . .)_, and the half-closed door to the en-suite bath. He scanned his own unopened suitcase, John's tidy holdall, and John's watch on the bedside table – clearly not a robbery then. _Intentional, not likely a crime of opportunity_. As he strode across the room towards John, movement in the opposite corner caught his eye and suddenly the pieces all fell into place.

The snake was huge. _Snake. Phylum chordata, Class Reptilia, Order Squamata . . ._ Even after performing the necropsy on the snake from the power station, he had not imagined the menace and power that a live snake of that size would project; one that was threatened, cornered, hissing and coiling. A Tiger Snake, like its mate across the hall, six feet long, he estimated, orange on the underbelly and with distinctly patterned olive and black stripes on the back, a clear indication this specimen was of the Chappell Island subspecies. _Notechis scutatus _of the family_ Elapidae_. And clearly agitated.

The copious amount of blood on the sheets clearly indicated John had been bitten by the beast, and the fact that John was struggling to speak and breathe meant it hadn't just been a dry bite. _A snake, one like the dead snake he'd been dissecting._ It wasn't difficult now to open that box in his mind palace, to resurrect the facts about the dead snake, complete with cross-references to the Encyclopedia Britannica, Steve Irwin, the Book of Genesis, Riki Tiki Tavi and that scene with the snakes from the Indiana Jones film he and John had watched on Boxing Day. An unaccustomed fear coiled like a spring in Sherlock's gut as he ticked through the components of the snake venom he'd researched in the lab in London and the effect those toxins were having on John's body. _Pain, tingling, numbness, impaired breathing, paralysis. Mortality rate for untreated bites over fifty percent. . ._

Keeping the gun and his eyes trained on the snake (_steady, Holmes, keep it steady)_, he sidled towards the bed, trying to reach John. If the light had startled the snake, Sherlock's movement across the room provoked it. _ . . . Highly developed senses of smell and taste, acute ability to sense motion. . ._ With a mesmerizing and terrifying reptilian grace, the snake slid towards him, showing its fangs and coiling and uncoiling itself in preparation for battle before stopping in the distinct pre-strike pose. A deranged dance of death.

Sherlock didn't hesitate. _ Kill the snake, save John, kill the snake, save John . . . _ He braced his hand, took aim and let out a long slow breath, recalling every long session in the shooting range and even afternoons spent shooting the wall in the Baker Street flat. He pulled the trigger and kept going until the snake stopped moving, emptying the magazine into the beast until it was nothing more than a limp and gruesome mess on the carpet, taking no small satisfaction in the accuracy of his shots. The smell of gore mixed with the hot metal of the spent casings and the overwhelming scorching sweet miasma of gun powder. Dropping the gun, Sherlock vaulted the bed and found John semi-conscious on the floor, bleeding profusely from his wrist and breathing laboriously. _Loss of__ 15-30% of total blood volume constitutes a Class II Hemorrhage, resulting in tachycardia, peripheral vasoconstriction, requiring volume resuscitation . . ._

"John . . . John! Can you hear me? Stick with me. Keep your eyes open." He saw Watson's eyelids struggle, ever the obedient soldier when it came to direct orders.

He grabbed John's mobile from his hand. In a sleepy town like Portwenn, the gunshots would serve to summon the police more quickly even than a call to 999. He had a more important call to make if he was going to save John's life. He pushed aside his extreme dislike, hatred, even loathing, of his brother. Rescuing John warranted calling upon his archenemy, even with the possibility of obligating himself to solve another tedious case for the government. Scrolling through the contacts, (_how had he not noticed before that John alphabetized them by first name?)_ he stopped at M. Mycroft. As the ringing commenced, he swallowed and prepared to grovel.

X

Martin sighed. His stomach grumbled again, making it difficult to concentrate on the monograph he was reading on bowel diversion surgeries for patients suffering from ulcerative colitis. He'd only eaten a few bites of his supper before the row in the restaurant. After arriving home and finding Louisa frosty and distant, picking at cornflakes and generally ignoring him, he'd retreated to his office to do some work. It was not a satisfactory solution on any count but the only one he could think of.

Now it was ten, he was cross, worried about Louisa, and quite frankly a bit miffed that she had misunderstood what was going on in the restaurant and jumped to some silly conclusion. And, if he admitted it, bewildered and more than a bit annoyed with himself for once again flat-footing it with Louisa. He didn't think he would ever understand her behavior, as much as he desperately wanted to.

Why was it so bloody confusing? Women, Louisa in particular, he meant. Living with them. He'd pined for her for so long, hoping against hope he'd just catch a glimpse of her, then counted himself the luckiest of men when she'd agreed to be his wife; he'd thought his heart was broken when she'd went away, and had truly believed his world was ending when she'd come back and shut him out of her life and her pregnancy. Now she was here, with the baby, under his roof and part of his life, something he'd never dared dream of, something that should have made them all over the moon with happiness. But instead it was awkward, beyond belief; a life filled with rows, exhaustion and uncertainty about how to behave. And even though she'd come to her senses and agreed to move to London with him, she still seemed distant and stressed and sad. He had a terrible feeling he'd unknowingly caused that. He found himself coming back to this point endlessly without knowing what to do.

His stomach rumbled again – apparently the topic of the monograph had not been sufficient to curb his appetite. It was not at all an appropriate time for eating. Still, he wondered how badly he'd sleep if he had just a slice of toast with a cup of hot milk before going to bed. Maybe just this once it would be alright.

He listened carefully, trying to gauge whether or not Louisa was asleep. He'd heard her take James upstairs, heard the sounds of running water in the lavatory as she prepared for bed. But the footsteps had stopped. Perhaps the coast was clear. He was rubbish at comforting anyone – it would be better not to go up until she was asleep, he told himself, so they could start fresh tomorrow.

But before Martin had a chance to leave his office and head for the kitchen, the silence in the house was shattered by a ringing telephone, and Martin's thoughts of a late-night snack evaporated. At this time of night, it wouldn't be a social call, not that he received many of those anyway. No this would be a medical question and it was his duty to answer, even if the odds were that it would be a frivolous issue that could have waited until morning surgery.

"Ellingham!"

"Doc, it's Mark Bridge, down at the Crab. You've got to come quick; there's a bloke here in my pub who's been bitten by a poisonous snake . . ." Martin could here other voices in the background, including one with a lofty public school accent correcting the publican's terminology. "Er . . . make that a VENOMOUS snake. . ."

A venomous snake? In Cornwall? That would be unusual, although P.C. Mylow HAD encountered one, a nasty one. Still, it was not very likely. Bridge might know something about running a pub but there was no reason to think he had any specific knowledge of snakes.

"Slow down, Mark. A snake? What type of snake – has someone who knows anything about snakes determined it was a venomous bite? Where was he bitten?"

"Er – here, in the pub, in his room, like . . ."

"Not where in the building, where on his BODY, you imbecile! And have you called for an ambulance?" Balancing the telephone on his shoulder, Martin pulled out his medical bag to make sure he had plenty of adrenaline and antihistamines.

"Yeah, yeah – right. Doc? There's a detective here you'd better speak with . . ."

A detective? Surely he didn't mean Penhale – there wasn't anyone in Portwenn who would make that mistake. It surely wasn't that London detective Morwenna had been gushing about, was it? The man in the black suit at the pharmacy, who'd diagnosed the boy's scarlet fever? There was a rustling sound and muffled voices while the telephone was handed over.

Martin automatically ran through the prescribed first aid steps for snake-bite in his mind while he waited, not very patiently.

"Doctor Ellingham." Now he was hearing a was speaking to that deep baritone voice with anthe accent that marked him as a tourist. "Sherlock Holmes, here." So it WAS the Londoner. Well he'd been right about the scarlet fever; maybe he knew something about snakes too. "My colleague has been bitten by an Australian Tiger Snake, Chappell Island subspecies. I need you to perform pressure immobilization and treat him for shock and hemorrhage." The man spoke more rapidly than an auctioneer and Martin was having a hard time following him with all of the background noise.

"A venomous Australian snake?" Martin didn't stop to think about how that had happened. He'd heard about the extreme toxicity of Australian snakes in his training but had never expected to treat one, not in Portwenn. "We'll need anti-venom. I don't have anything that exotic on hand here. Best bet is to get him to hospital." Defibrillator, he thought to himself, I'd better bring the defibrillator.

"Anti-venom is on its way; I have called upon the assistance of a military contact to obtain it. But surely you know that the protocol for this type of bite is pressure immobilization before relocating the patient. Are you familiar . . ."

"Of course I am, you idiot. I'm a doctor. I'll be there shortly." Martin started rifling through his cupboard for wide, strong bandages and a long splint. "Be sure someone calls 999 and orders an air ambulance. And whatever you do, don't move him."

"Yes, of course. We're applying pressure to the bleeding – quite copious, I'm afraid. I estimate 20 percent blood volume loss or more. He'll need a drip. He's in shock too, I think. Pale and labored breathing."

Martin nodded to himself, thankful that for once he was dealing with someone who wasn't panicking or undertaking some weird folk remedy or an outrageous treatment they'd seen on Peak Practice. He checked the inventory o f supplies in his bag again, adding an intravenous cannula as he spoke. "Where is the anti-venom coming from and when will it get here? I can't imagine they stock it at the Royal Cornwall." Martin was thinking about time, glance at his clock, knowing that he had roughly two hours from the time of the bite to get this man the proper treatment if he was going to have a chance of saving his life.

"Ah yes. My contact has located the anti-venom at an MOD installation in Hampshire. It is being dispatched by an RAF helicopter which can land at the old search and rescue base at St. Magwan's in Truro. The air ambulance will take us there to meet it."

"Right. On my way." This had to be one of the weirder call outs of his practice – not as bad as the badger-eater, perhaps, or the sisters with the deadly home-made antibiotics. But up there, definitely up there.

Martin picked up his medical bag, his defibrillator, and a carrier bag filled with the bandages and splints and hurried out the door and down the hill towards the pub. Belatedly, he realized he perhaps should have let Louisa know where he was going. Too many years of not having anyone to be accountable to, he guessed. He hoped Louisa would connect the sound of the telephone ringing and the sound of the door closing and realize he'd been called out to a medical emergency. Hazards of being a doctor's . . . well wife wasn't the right word, much as he wished it were, but hazards of being part of a doctor's household anyhow. Besides, maybe she'd sleep through the whole thing and never know he'd gone.

And what was this business with snakes? First the dead one in the power plant, then the ones Stuart had found in the woods. And now a live, biting snake and a very sick man. Somehow this didn't sound like a circus anymore.

To be continued . . .

Glossary:

_Serpentes_ is the Latin name of the taxonomic suborder of snakes.

A necropsy is the animal equivalent of an autopsy.

The MOD is the Ministry of Defense.

The RAF is the Royal Air Force, which has a helicopter base at Odiham in Hampshire and has a former helicopter base at St. Magwan's in Cornwall.


	10. Chapter 10

**Convergence of the Twain, a Doc Martin and Sherlock Crossover Story**

Doc Martin belongs to Buffalo Pictures. Sherlock belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. I own nothing but my imagination.

Set between episodes 3 and 4 of Doc Martin series 5 and between episodes 1 and 2 of Sherlock series 2

**Author's Note: **Sorry for all the medical-ese in this chapter. It is obligatory when writing from Martin's point of view during a medical emergency. See the glossary at the end of the chapter for definitions. Also, I am not a doctor and I don't play one on TV. Do not attempt to treat snakebite based upon this work of fiction . That being said, many thanks to fanfiction71 for her tips on Tiger Snakes (it helps to consult an Aussie on this one) and to Snowsie2011 for her expertise on how a real medical professional (like her amazing self) would respond in this kind of emergency. And thanks as always to my awesome beta readers, Snowsie2011 and ggo85 for their generous assistance and support throughout this project. Any errors that remain are mine alone.

**Chapter 10 – Rescue**

P.C. Penhale was standing in front of the pub when Martin arrived, the constable's puffed-out chest evidence of his own deluded sense of self-importance. Martin cringed inwardly, wishing there were some way to avoid the inevitable exchange with his own personal village idiot. Martin made to proceed inside the pub but was thwarted by Penhale's hand on his arm. He snatched his arm back angrily with a grunt of disgust.

"Doctor Ellingham. I've been authorized to admit you to the CRIME SCENE but you'll need to be logged in first." Penhale began scribbling on the clipboard in his left hand.

Martin roared. "Admit me? I'm the doctor, you idiot. And I need to see the patient immediately, wherever he is."

"It's protocol, Doc. Can't be too careful, letting just any old Tom, Dick or Harry - or MARTIN - into a secure location." He looked up from his writing. "Now just sign here. . ."

"Don't be ridiculous! I need to see to my patient. Make yourself useful – go and wait for the helicopter. The air ambulance usually lands down on the beach."

"No need to meet the air ambulance."

"What do you mean? I was told the air ambulance was coming. We may have a critically ill man upstairs. No time to drive him to the air base." Martin looked at his watch again and frowned. He had no interest in presiding over a dying man's jolting journey across the moor in the back of a van.

"No, calm yourself down, Doc. The air ambulance is already scrambled, waiting for you. That Mr. Holmes has some serious connections in the Home Office and the Metropolitan Police! The Specialist Protection Command had a security detail down here during the prime minister's holiday, and it wasn't scheduled to return to London until tomorrow. Mr. Holmes has wangled access to their rescue helicopter. It is down on the Platt, waiting to transport your patient when you're ready. Them two blokes with the stretcher are here to move him when the time comes." Penhale jerked his head towards two very young and uneasy looking men wearing uniforms of the Metropolitan Police, both of whom were leaning against the pub wall with a wheeled stretcher beside them.

"Right." Martin wondered again who this Mr. Holmes was exactly and what Penhale meant by a "government contact". Was this all above-board? But he wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth – if this contact got him a helicopter at twice the usual speed and timely access to the proper anti-venom, then he was prepared to look the other way at the precise arrangements that made it possible. He glanced over at the two policemen, the tall blond with the spotty face and the scrawny one with the shaved head. "You two – follow me."

Martin backed through the swinging door into the pub with the security officers right behind him, leaving Penhale in his wake, muttering about maintaining the appropriate secure perimeter. Inside, the raucous sounds of the inebriated and the merely tipsy greeted him and he frowned in disgust.

"Make way – let me through – medical emergency," Martin shouted over the din as he pushed his way through the crowd and across the room to where the pub owner stood, wringing his hands at the foot of the staircase.

"Up there?" Martin asked, not even waiting for a response. His long legs took the steep stairs two at a time, the defibrillator banging against one wall and his medical bag uncomfortably hitting his shin on the way up. When he reached the top, he strode purposefully towards the one open door on the corridor. He swallowed heavily as he steeled himself for what promised to be a very bloody scene, suddenly thankful that he hadn't eaten much supper.

Upon entering the room, he immediately was assailed by the smell – blood obviously, but overlaid with the unmistakable odor of gunfire, and something else - something sweet, vinegary and unusual. His stomach roiled and bile climbed into his throat. Unacceptable, he told himself as he took deep breaths through his mouth and stared at his shoes to focus on something other than the blood that seemed to have splattered the entire room. Focus, man. You're a damn doctor. Focus on the patient. You're going to be back in the operating theatre in a month and a half and you've got to keep this blood thing under control.

The two stretcher bearers were pressed up against Martin's back, leaving him little choice but to enter the room and face whatever awaited him. Once inside, his attention focused immediately on the pale face of the sandy-haired man he'd last seen dripping with wine in the Large Restaurant. His patient was lying on the floor, his head supported in the lap of the dark-haired detective Martin remembered from the chemist's shop.

Blood was everywhere – on the patient, his companion, the bed sheets, the duvet and the carpet. Clearly the patient wasn't clotting properly, not unexpected, given the anti-coagulant properties of snake venom. Martin noticed with approval that the detective was using the bloody bed sheet to apply pressure to the patient's injured right wrist and had applied a make-shift tourniquet to the arm, using a pair of pajama trousers and something that looked like . . . a riding crop. Finally someone who knew something about first aid. It made for a refreshing change.

"Doctor Ellingham is here, John. Just hang on now and we'll get you on that helicopter."

To Martin's ear, the voice that had been so commanding in the chemist's shop sounded softer and possibly a little hesitant now. Martin wondered if the detective was concerned about his friend's prognosis. Not without cause, in this case.

Martin knelt beside his patient, forcing aside his momentary feeling of lightheadedness caused by the smell and sight of so much blood. "When?" was all he asked.

Holmes checked his mobile. "It's been fifteen minutes since I found him. I came immediately after he rang me, so less than twenty minutes I should think."

"The snake. You said it was Australian. How do you know?" Martin quickly checked his patient's pupils with his pocket torch.

"The snake's remains are over there – in the corner. I was dissecting the one from the power station in the other room when John went to bed – it's the same breed as this one. Interestingly, its venom is also the same sort that killed the three people in London whose deaths I am investigating."

"Shush." Martin couldn't care less about dead people in London. Right now he needed to listen to his patient's heartbeat and needed silence to do so.

"I beg your pardon!" Holmes' affront was immediately apparent.

Not that it mattered to Martin. "Quiet! I can't hear with you talking. If you feel the need to talk, go elsewhere," he said through gritted teeth. Christ, what a prat! The patient's medical condition required Martin's full attention – it was going to be impossible if he had to do it all with the tabloid genius over there yammering in his ear.

Holmes sniffed imperiously. "We're just waiting for YOU to get the pressure bandages on so we can take John to get the anti-venom."

Martin's hackles rose. "I'm the doctor. If you want me to take care of your friend, then shut up. You're a detective? Go detect something."

Martin felt the younger man's eyes burning into the back of his neck as he bent over his case, pulled on a pair of examination gloves, and continued his assessment. In the back of his mind on an endless loop was his new personal mantra: ignore the blood, ignore the blood . . .

His patient was semiconscious and moaning, clearly agitated and diaphoretic. Martin felt for his pulse, weak and thready. Respirations were six per minute. Not good, not good at all – this man was losing consciousness quickly. Martin needed to intubate and then ventilate the patient until they could get him to hospital.

He waved Holmes out of the way to get the patient's head flat on the floor for the intubation. Muscle memory took over as he pulled the equipment out of his bag, guided the tracheal tube into place, put the mask over the patient's mouth, and began squeezing the bag to force air into the patient's lungs.

When everything was properly in place, Martin allowed himself a brief glance at the detective who had crawled across the bed to examine the snake. Good riddance, thought Martin. Let him play with his snake and stay out of my hair. Martin didn't have enough hands to do all that was necessary, however, and with Holmes otherwise engaged, he was going to need someone else to help. With a sigh, he pointed at one of the stretcher bearers. "You! Get over here. Hold the mask steady, and then squeeze the bag every five seconds. Can you do that?"

The blond policeman's eyes were wide with fear and he turned a sickly shade of green at the sight of the blood oozing from the patient's nose and mouth. Nonetheless, he put on a brave face and took over, counting audibly between each compression. Martin nodded his approval as he again listened with his stethoscope. Better, just a bit better.

"What's your name, constable?" asked Holmes, suddenly fixing the patient again with his steely gaze.

"Trent, sir, Clarence Trent." The man looked at his fellow officer. "And he's P.C. Sawyer.

Holmes nodded and then turned away just as suddenly, the cogs of his mind apparently spinning too wildly for him to acknowledge the officer with words. Martin rolled his eyes. He couldn't be expected to keep track of their bloody names and wondered why Holmes would want to.

"Is he on any medication?" he asked, turning his head in Sherlock's general direction.

"Am I to be permitted to speak, then?" came the reply, dripping with sarcasm, as Holmes leaned his gangly frame across the bed to reach John and Martin on the other side.

Martin merely grunted, taking out his blood pressure cuff and attaching it to John's left arm.

"Nothing stronger than paracetamol at the moment."

"Has he had any tonight?" Martin began to pump the bulb, watching the dial closely.

Holmes hesitated momentarily. "Odds are he took some before bed. He obviously had a headache when I saw him earlier."

Martin nodded and noticed that Sherlock – God, that was an unforgettable name, wasn't it - gazed briefly at his friend's pale face and patted his leg before returning to the snake in the corner of the room. Probably meant it to be encouraging but, really, shouldn't the great mind know that the comatose man was far beyond noticing?

Now that the patient's airway and breathing had been stabilized, the next step was addressing blood loss. The bleeding wouldn't stop until they had the anti-venom. The anticoagulants in the venom would prevent clotting and the patient could easily bleed out if they weren't careful. Replacing the lost blood volume with fluids was the best Martin could do until they had access to the anti-venom.

He pulled a wide bore cannula and a drip bag of Hartmann's solution from his equipment case and checked the patient's uninjured arm for a suitable vein – not an easy task given that vasoconstriction was already underway. He hoped there was not venous collapse – a pub was no place to undertake a jugular cutdown on a patient with impaired clotting factors, even if it was a procedure he at one time could have done in his sleep.

It took a touch longer than usual, but he soon managed to palpate the cephalic vein sufficiently to insert the cannula and start the drip. He opened the defibrillator next - he needed the heart monitor more than the paddles but it wouldn't hurt to have them at the ready too. No use tempting fate to throw a cardiac arrest into the mix here just to muck things up.

Martin was busy hooking up the monitor when the door opened. He didn't look to see who entered the room until he heard Sherlock say, abruptly, "Evidence Bag. Now."

"What's happened here, Mr. Holmes? Where's John? What's happened to John?" It was a woman's voice, authoritative but filled with anxiety. As he turned his head, Martin caught a glimpse of a dark haired woman in a blue trouser suit.

"Bitten by a snake. Where's that evidence bag, Inspector Rivers?" The detective's voice was tense. "I'm waiting. This heroin isn't going to sample itself."

Martin snapped to attention when he heard that. Heroin? That would cock things up, if his patient was on heroin.

"Heroin?" The woman sounded horrified. "John? He didn't seem . . ."

"Not John," The detective cut her off and Martin breathed a sigh of relief – one less complicating factor. "But look at the snake," Sherlock continued. "See that white powder that's leaked out of the bullet holes? Heroin."

"The snake took heroin? I don't understand?"

Holmes sighed. "The snake was being used to smuggle heroin, somehow. I'm going to need to do further dissection of this one and the one in the bathtub across the corridor to determine exactly how. But this is definitely heroin. No question about it. You can tell from the smell – that peculiar sour tang."

How did the detective know about the smell of heroin? Before he could give this more thought, Martin checked John's breathing again and frowned. The blond constable was handling the bag admirably but the respiration rate remained too slow. And while the patient's complexion was ashen from blood loss and shock, there was definite edema around the eyes and mouth as well as on the extremities. He pulled an ampoule of adrenaline out of his bag and, as he drew the serum up into the syringe, he wondered if Holmes had first-hand knowledge of heroin, and what it would mean if he did.

"Is that morphine? John'll need a great deal. He built up a tolerance when he was wounded in Afghanistan."

Martin looked up to see the detective looming over him. Arrogant sod. "No."

"You won't give him an increased dose? That seems rather . . ."

"No, you moron, it's not morphine. Contraindicated– too risky in his condition. This is adrenaline. For anaphylaxis. I'm more worried about his breathing than his pain." I don't have time for this second-guessing, Martin thought. What a way to practice medicine, with Lord Know-It-All hovering over me. "And then," Martin snarled, "I'm going to give him a tetanus shot, whether or not YOU concur."

Holmes merely nodded and began dumping clothing out of the duffle bag at the end of the bed. He handed it to the woman. "Put the snake in here, Inspector, while I get the other one. You're going to have to take them both to London." He picked up the other suitcase and moved towards the door.

"London?"

"Chain of custody. You're the police. I need to get this evidence to DI Lestrade in London for analysis, and for evidentiary purposes you'll have to do the couriering – your official status will make it admissible should it come to that. The helicopter is going back to London once it delivers us to hospital; it can take you there." The door opened and Martin could only assume someone had left.

He turned his attention back to the wound left by the snake. The bite was on the inside of the right wrist, directly over the basilic vein, no doubt the cause for the rapid development of the patient's symptoms as well as the source of the hemorrhaging. The tourniquet was in place and doing its job but a pressure immobilization wrap would be safer. He swabbed at the site, examining the swelling around the skin, not liking what he saw.

He retrieved the supplies for pressure immobilization. Though he hadn't done this in a very long time, the principles were fairly simple – wrap the arm tightly to slow movement of the venom through the blood stream to the lymphic system and ultimately the patient's lungs. This would buy them the time needed to transport the patient to the airbase where they could inject the anti-venom.

As he began strapping his patient's arm to the splint, the door opened again. Martin looked up and saw Holmes return, carrying a suitcase that looked much heavier than it had when he'd left. The Inspector and the bald constable were struggling to put the bloody snake into the duffle bag and suddenly Martin had a very vivid flashback. The way they moved brought to mind the way he and Stewart had buried the bag full of bloody, bullet-riddled, dead snakes. What was going on here? Were all these snakes connected? Should he say something? Maybe better to stay out of this – he had enough to worry about without adding snakes and squirrels to the mix. Still . . .

"My God, it was the monkey!" shouted Sherlock. Martin lost all train of thought about snakes when he heard that. Could this night get any weirder?

"Monkey? What do you mean?" asked Inspector Rivers. "The one who picked your pocket?"

"Well this," he said triumphantly, brandishing some small speck he'd plucked from the carpet, "this is animal fur and I am quite certain that upon analysis it will prove to be from the monkey. See – he came through that window, knocked over that lamp, and then must have opened the door. That's why it was ajar but locked from the inside. The monkey opened the door and let the snake in."

"So we're looking for the same blokes – the pickpockets and the ones who set the snake on John are the same? And, what, they're drugs smugglers too?" The DI sounded skeptical.

"Well, you'll have to take this fur for analysis in London, but yes, that's a working theory. And the drugs are somehow connected to the murders in London, though I am still not sure how. They must have had the monkey pinch my key to identify which room I would be in. And if John hadn't objected to the necropsy in his bathtub, he would have been safely in the other room."

Martin only half listened as the detectives discussed the veritable menagerie involved in their case. He had his own problems. As he worked the bandages down from the tourniquet towards John's wrist, he noticed the limb was rapidly swelling close to the wound. This wasn't an allergic reaction – the adrenaline would have taken care of that. There was a tense and shiny area immediately to the right of the bite wound. He palpated it carefully, his heart sinking as it bounced back. This was definitely not what he wanted to find in someone who wasn't clotting properly.

It was essential to alleviate pressure on the fascia to prevent nerve and muscle damage and there was no time to get his patient to hospital. But here, with no equipment, no assistants, and a patient suffering from the effects of the venom, it was going to be very tricky. And bloody. Very, very bloody.

"You there, get the stretcher."

Holmes stood up and crossed the room. "Are we ready to go then?"

"No, I need to perform emergency surgery. He's developed compartment syndrome. The swelling from the wound and the reaction to the bite is blocking blood flow to the nerves and muscles and necrotizing the flesh. I need to operate immediately or he'll lose the arm."

"Operate? How are you going to do that?" asked the Inspector with a slight quaver in her voice. The sight of the injured man' pale face and bloody clothes was definitely having a negative impact on her composure.

"No choice. We can't wait for the hospital. We only want to move him once so let's get him on the stretcher. You!" Martin pointed at the tall constable, "Keep squeezing that ventilator. Inspector, put the drip bag on his chest, and then hold this splint on his arm steady. Mr. Holmes, please get behind him and take him by the shoulders. Gently now. And you and I, constable, we'll lock arms under his hips to lift his torso and his legs."

To Martin's surprise, after only a few furtive glances at each other, everyone took their assigned places and carefully moved the patient to the stretcher. He was dead weight and despite his small stature, it took quite an effort to lift him.

"Good, good," said Martin, wiping his brow on his sleeve. "Now move the side table. And you, Inspector, go and find a towel."

While the others maneuvered around the room, Martin took stock of his supplies. Oh what he wouldn't give for a Stryker knife right now. It was maddening not to have the right tools, but it couldn't be helped. He pulled out his largest scalpel and gauze and suture materials, topical analgesic, steri-strips, forceps and antiseptic. This would have to do.

He couldn't risk much in the way of pain management, not with the potential for cardiac arrest, and anyhow the patient had fallen into unconsciousness at this point so he wasn't likely to notice. The biggest risk was bleeding out. The pressure bandage would help and he could move the tourniquet to isolate the surgical field, but couldn't start a transfusion without blood.

He did have two more bags of Hartmann's. He took the drip bag in his hands and squeezed, forcing all the remaining liquid into his patient before switching out the bag.

"Okay. Swanson, is it? Come and hold the drip bag. Hold it over his head. Trent, keep up with the Ambu bag. Don't stop, no matter what happens, understand? Inspector, give me that towel and then put on these gloves – I'm going to need you to take care of the instruments. And Mr. Holmes? You'll have to hold him down. Just there – lean across his chest from the left side."

They all moved into place and Martin took another deep breath, forgetting for a moment the need to breathe through his mouth. This was an error in judgment - the smell of blood in the room – the patient's blood mixed with that of the snake - was overwhelming. Insidiously, it permeated his consciousness, threatening to overcome his efforts to ignore his roiling stomach, his rising sense of panic. Enough, he told himself sternly. Enough. Time to work. He was committed to surgery – and had the appointment at Imperial to prove it. He was sure he had conquered this blasted blood thing, no matter what his gag reflex was doing.

Removing a prepackaged paper drape from his bag, he swabbed the surgical site with antiseptic. So much blood – it dripped from the wound and seeped from the patient's nose; it soaked the patient's t-shirt and the bloody wad of bed sheet and the carpet where he had lain. It was on everyone who had touched the victim, staining the Inspector's blue blouse, the constables' uniform shirts, his own tie. Even Holmes was covered, though it wasn't entirely clear whether it was Watson's blood or that of the snake.

Martin fought back the chillingly familiar feeling of nausea. Not now. He could be sick later; now he needed to slice open this man's arm.

"Scalpel," he said, looking at the Inspector. She returned his gaze blankly and he snorted in disgust and snatched it off the towel-covered table. So much for expecting any help from this ragtag bunch. He looked at the anxious faces ringing the stretcher. He'd never felt so alone in a roomful of people.

His first cut opened the swollen portion of the arm. Seizing gauze sponges from the Inspector, he shoved them into the wound to visualize the field. He was sweating heavily and his stomach was in knots. Blood welled up, mimicking the way the bile rose in his gorge. He needed to vomit. Damn! He couldn't. Not now. He had to hold on until this procedure was finished.

Holmes coughed. "Fascinating. I've only seen this before on a corpse." Martin glared at him, willing the detective to shut up. Their eyes met over the patient's chest, and it was Holmes who backed down this time.

Martin cut through the muscle, laying open the arm from wrist to elbow. He nodded to himself as his practiced eye picked up the immediate signs that the cut had begun to relieve the pressure on the impacted blood vessels. He was surprised at how easily the steps of the fasciotomy procedure came back to him. It had been years since he'd done this. He should have felt proud but instead his primary thought was not to vomit on the patient's face.

There was the unexpected relief of a towel pressed against his face, and he gave the Inspector a grateful glance. Even though she remained upright, her face betrayed her panic. Martin took a quick look at the men. Holmes was focused intently on the open wound, no doubt thinking he could perform the procedure himself the next time, probably. The arse. The two constables had steady hands at least, whatever was going on inside their heads.

Aha. Got it! That last little pocket, where the ulnar nerve was twisted, now opened up to the air. God, it seemed like a big incision. Couldn't be helped but he hoped there'd be no need for a skin graft.

When he'd completed the operation - not beautiful work but certainly functional - he closed the wound with sutures and steri-strips – the hospital could finish it up later. He wiped his face on his sleeve, handed the forceps to the Inspector, and was immediately sick . . .

"I knew it!" exclaimed Holmes, a note of glee in his voice.

Martin looked up in his misery and humiliation only long enough to glare at Holmes. Before he could think too much about the detective, though, his stomach heaved again, sending him scrambling for another sick bag.

"Knew what?" asked the Inspector.

"Hemophobia. It's the only explanation."

Martin looked up, none-too-pleased. "The only explanation for what?"

"It made no sense to find a highly trained, well-respected vascular surgeon holding down a GP post in a village like this. No sense at all. And it wasn't as if you liked it here – everything about your demeanor indicates you despise this place. I thought it might be a woman – you obviously live with one even if you don't wear a wedding band. But I should have realized it was something else."

So this is what the famous detective had to offer in a crisis – an analysis of Martin's domestic arrangements? Not that it was any of his ruddy business. He wanted to wipe that facetious little smirk off that horsey-looking face.

"He's a surgeon?" asked the blond constable. "Guv said we were waiting on a local quack . . ."

"No, John had heard of him. Very impressive CV - Imperial College of Medicine, youngest vascular surgery consultant in the history of St. Thomas's, published author . . ."

"What's the problem then?" asked Inspector Rivers. "So what if he's a surgeon? He obviously knew what he was doing here. John is lucky he isn't some local quack."

"He has a blood phobia; he's negatively impacted by blood. Not to put too fine a point on it, the sight – or possibly the smell – of blood makes him sick. Actually sick. That's quite a handicap for a doctor, let alone a surgeon."

Martin saw the woman's eyes travel from Sherlock's face to his own and back again before alighting on the emesis bag in his hands. He couldn't interpret the look on her face and found he really didn't want to. What did it matter anyhow? Now it wasn't just the whole village that knew of his problem, the one he had supposedly conquered. No, now this annoying prick of a detective and half of Scotland Yard were in on it too. The thought of telling Robert, telling Chris, telling LOUISA ran through his brain and the familiar self-loathing started to gnaw at him.

Martin rolled the gloves off his hands as he stared back at Sherlock, willing the younger man to blink first. But those intense blue eyes stayed with him until he turned away in disgust himself. He yanked off his soiled tie and shoved it in his pocket before scrubbing at his face with the back of his knuckles. Back to work – best way to put this behind him.

"Are you quite through, Mr. Holmes?" he asked as he opened a fresh set of gloves. "Because we still have a patient in need of anti-venom and other time-sensitive medical treatment. If you can put aside your assessment of my professional and personal life, we need to get your friend on that helicopter. That is if you are interested in saving his life."

He handed his medical bag to the Inspector, laid the drip bag on the patient's chest, and took charge of the Ambu bag himself as he nodded to the stretcher bearers to get moving.

"What about the snakes?" asked Sherlock, looking at the duffle bag and the black suitcase.

"I don't give a damn about your bloody snakes!"

To be continued . . .

Glossary:

Specialist Protection Command: A division of the Metropolitan Police Service that provides security detail for the prime minister and other government officials, otherwise known as SO1.

Hartmann's solution: an enhanced saline solution used to replace blood volume in trauma cases. US readers may be more familiar with Ringer's, a similar product.

Vasoconstriction, venous collapse: both refer to narrowing/collapsing of the veins due to shock and blood loss.

Diaphoretic: experiencing excessive sweating due to shock

Basilic and cephalic veins: major blood vessels that pass through the wrist.

Ambu bag: a tool for manually compressing room air into the lungs of a patient having trouble breathing.

Anaphylaxis: an extreme allergic reaction

Edema: swelling

Compartment syndrome: a limb threatening and life threatening condition, defined as the compression of nerves, blood vessels, and muscle inside a closed space within the body. This leads to tissue death from lack of oxygenation due to the blood vessels being compressed by the raised pressure within the compartment

Necrotize: death of flesh from lack of circulation

Fascia: connective tissue that surrounds muscles

Fasciotomy: procedure to cut through the fascia to open the compartment and relieve pressure on blood vessels and nerves

Stryker knife: surgical tool for precision cutting in orthopedic surgery

Hemophobia: Phobia of blood, explored in Doc Martin in more detail in Series 1 and 4.


	11. Chapter 11

**Convergence of the Twain, a Doc Martin and Sherlock Crossover Story**

Doc Martin belongs to Buffalo Pictures. Sherlock belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. I own nothing but my imagination.

Set between episodes 3 and 4 of Doc Martin series 5 and between episodes 1 and 2 of Sherlock series 2

As always, many thanks to my amazing betas, ggo85 with her amazing knowledge of military helicopters and Snowsie2011 who filled me in on the finer points of blood transfusions.

**Chapter 11—Flight**

"Can you call the hospital on that thing?" Martin shouted at the helicopter crew, pointing at the radio with one hand while the other held the bag of Hartmann's aloft. The racket was deafening, even with everyone wearing headphones.

The nearest crewman nodded. "What's the message, Doc?"

"Tell them he's going to need an immediate transfusion. Have them hang two units of O negative and prepare to type and cross-match for further transfusing."

"Not O negative. That's not the right blood type," blurted Sherlock, his voice crackling in the speaker in Martin's ear.

"Since when are you the doctor?" Martin said angrily. "O negative is the universal donor. Any patient can be transfused with that type in an emergency. We can't wait on the transfusion while we test for his blood type."

"You won't need to wait. He's AB positive."

Martin stared at the detective. "How would you know that? Let me guess. You can deduce it from looking at his trouser turnups or the way he eats his eggs or something . . ." The sarcasm dripped from his voice.

"No, it's not something visible. But he's my flatmate."

"Not a typical question on a lease form, blood type. Why would you ask? Were you planning on opening a blood bank in your sitting room?"

"Noooo. But John's a soldier, at least he was. He still has his identity discs – he wears them most of the time but I've caught the odd glimpse of them around the flat. You can check for yourself but I am quite confident they say his blood type is AB positive." The detective's expression was fierce, but there was just a touch of a blush, as if even he recognized it was unorthodox to keep track of your flat mate's blood type. He busied himself with the Ambu bag he was squeezing to keep his friend's lungs filled with air and looked away from the doctor.

Martin hesitated for just a moment then, glancing over at Holmes, he rolled up the patient's bloody t-shirt from the waist until he spotted the metal discs hanging below the sternum on a sturdy chain. He read the information and then looked at the detective with one raised eyebrow. "You there, with the radio" he shouted, "Call the hospital back and tell them to have four pints of AB positive at the ready."

Sherlock looked up when he heard that and two intense pairs of blue eyes met and locked briefly. Each man acknowledged the other with a brief nod before turning back to the patient's care. They had seven more minutes before the helicopter would reach the airbase where the anti-venom could be administered, and perhaps for that time at least they could call a truce.

X

Mycroft Holmes was not unused to hurtling through the darkness in a helicopter on a mysterious mission to deliver a package that could mean the difference between life and death. In his line of work this was, while not a common way to spend the evening, not an unheard of one either. And, unfortunately for him, he was also not unused to responding to urgent distress calls from his younger brother. Sherlock had, from the most tender of ages, demonstrated a remarkable and infuriating talent for getting into scrapes. And Mycroft as the elder brother, self-appointed guardian, and legal and practical agent of their mother, bore the brunt of the rescue work.

What Mycroft was not accustomed to was coming to the aid of Dr. John Watson. Sherlock had never before asked for his help on behalf of someone else, not his clients, Mrs. Hudson, or even that Adler woman to whom he appeared to have grown attached in some way last year. Mycroft had known from the start that John Watson was a force to be reckoned with, from the way he'd stood his ground, and stood up for Sherlock, in his first interview with Mycroft. Mycroft had to admit it had been helpful, having another voice of reason in his brother's life, one his brother apparently paid heed to on occasion. John's assumption of his role as flatmate, sidekick, associate, perhaps even friend if Sherlock would admit to having such a thing, had brought Mycroft a modicum of peace of mind with regard to his brother. What he hadn't realized until just now was that it had also brought Mycroft someone else to worry about. Constantly.

Once the pilot had set the helicopter down, Mycroft removed his restraining harness and picked up the black cold-packed case containing the anti-venom. It took only a minute or two for the crew to open the doors and lower the staircase. With a brief salute and murmured thanks for a safe journey, he clambered down the steps. The rotors thundered overhead and the resulting blast of wind threatened to flatten him. Ducking out of habit and necessity, he moved swiftly away from the aircraft and onto the tarmac. He gave a thumbs up sign to the pilot as the beat of the rotors picked up and the big machine lifted off once again and sped away into the darkness.

There was an ambulance waiting near the end of the runway, along with a police van and a Land Rover with the RAF logo on it, and light was spilling from the open doorway of the closest building. Mycroft made his way in that direction as he heard the sound of a second helicopter approaching. When he reached the doorway, he looked at his watch – could it only have been an hour since his brother's frantic call? It was very lucky indeed he'd been in an intelligence briefing with the Air Wing Commander at Odiham when the call had come in. It had taken only a few brief telephone calls and less than fifteen minutes to obtain the anti-venom and arrange transport to Cornwall.

The ambulance crew raced to assist in moving the patient out of the helicopter and soon there was a knot of people rushing towards the building, pushing the trolley and carrying various pieces of equipment. Mycroft spotted Sherlock immediately.

He caught Sherlock's eye, and thought he saw a look of something like relief on his brother's face. Sherlock separated from the pack, eyeing the parcel in Mycroft's hand.

"Did you bring . . ." Mycroft could hear the tension in his brother's voice.

"Yes, here it is." He handed Sherlock the case. "How is he?"

"Not out of the woods yet. The doctor did a bit of surgery before we left." He swallowed and pushed a hand through the tangle of curly black hair. "He needs the anti-venom. And a transfusion."

His brother looked uncharacteristically worried. "Go on then. I'll wait."

He watched as Sherlock delivered the case to a tall, stocky man with brutally short hair. Mycroft concluded that he must be the doctor, as he was incongruously wearing a suit and tie instead of a uniform and he seemed to be taking charge. Sherlock spoke to him briefly before stepping back to lean against the wall. Mycroft could see that his brother's eyes were glued to the proceedings. A petite, dark-haired woman stood on his left, equally engrossed. Mycroft slid up against the wall to Sherlock's right and had his first real opportunity to observe the injured Dr. Watson.

John didn't look well, that much was certain. He was clearly unconscious, and one of the medics was squeezing a bag to force air into his lungs. He was covered in blood, as was Sherlock for that matter, and he looked shockingly pale against the white sheet on the stretcher. The dark-suited doctor was injecting the anti-venom into the port on the drip bag when Mycroft caught a glimpse of his face.

"Good Lord, Sherlock," he whispered to his brother. "You didn't tell me the local GP you were having treat John was _Rusty_ Ellingham."

A flutter of interest passed over Sherlock's face. "You know him?"

"We were at school together. He was a year ahead of me – house prefect the year before I was. Brilliant pupil."

"Ah yes. That would have been before my time."

"Rusty?" asked the dark-haired woman. "But he's not a redhead." She gave him a quizzical look.

A broad smile cracked Sherlock's face. "You obviously haven't spent much time at boarding school, Inspector Rivers."

"Ah, yes, well . . ." Mycroft glanced at Ellingham, discomfited at the prospect of dissecting the nickname. Seeing his brother's animated face, he realized he didn't need to.

"Rusty is short for 'rusty springs'. The perennial nickname of a bedwetter," Sherlock explained.

"And he's the GP? In that Cornish village?" That seemed out of character. Last he'd heard, Ellingham had been some kind of surgeon in London. Made quite a name for himself. Not that he showed up for Founder's Day teas or whatnot, so Mycroft hadn't actually seen him in years, probably a decade or two to tell the truth. Ellingham had always been a miserable bugger, but he'd won all the medals in his year. John was likely in good hands.

"Obviously," replied Sherlock. "Shall I give him regards from his schoolmate, old Dodger Holmes?" There was just a hint of mischief in his voice.

Mycroft flushed.

The woman perked up. "Dodger? Was that your nickname? Because you liked Dickens?"

Sherlock chuckled at this, although his eyes never left John. "Dickens? Hardly. Look at him. He's not the artful dodger, he's a jammy dodger – after his favorite biscuits!"

Mycroft felt his cheeks burn. "That was a long time ago."

The young woman smiled. "Alright then, what was your nickname, Sherlock?"

Mycroft could almost hear Sherlock stiffen with embarrassment as he muttered "None." Served him right, the punter.

"Sherlock would have needed friends for there to be anyone to give him a nickname." Match point, brother dear.

There wasn't time for Sherlock to respond. Just then, the ambulance was backed up to the door so the trolley could be rolled up the ramp.

They stood and watched Ellingham as he barked instructions to the various medics and ambulance attendants. When the doors slammed shut and the ambulance pulled away, lights blazing and sirens wailing, Ellingham let his head drop for just a moment before he peeled off his gloves.

"Will he be alright, doctor?" asked Inspector Rivers.

The doctor looked up at her. "We won't know yet. He received the anti-venom within the recommended time window and the hospital is prepared to transfuse him." He stopped to bin the discarded gloves, then looked at Sherlock. "His vitals were stable. That is a good sign."

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Thank you, Doctor." He turned to his brother. "Mycroft, I need you to take Inspector Rivers to London. She has some evidence to deliver to Inspector Lestrade at the Met."

Ellingham looked up at the mention of Mycroft's name and then frowned. He looked at Mycroft and then back at Sherlock and then at Mycroft once again, recognition dawning on him. "Holmes. He's with you. I didn't realize. He's your . . . your . . ."

"My brother, Ellingham. Sherlock is my brother."

"I don't recall a Holmes Minor at school."

"No, he was sufficiently younger that you wouldn't have overlapped. And our alma mater was only one of the academic institutions that encouraged my brother to seek educational opportunities elsewhere."

Sherlock snorted.

"Good to see you, Ellingham. And thanks for taking care of Doctor Watson. I have come to rely on him to look out for Sherlock."

"Holmes." Ellingham nodded. "Well your brother has been looking out for Doctor Watson this time. His contacts at the Home Office, getting the anti-venom arranged so quickly . . . wait. That was you, wasn't it?"

"I was able to, shall we say, expedite my brother's request. I am certain his connections at Scotland Yard would have come up with it, but perhaps not quite so promptly." Mycroft did his best to sound modest.

Sherlock grunted, and Ellingham let his eyes flicker over the younger man's face.

"So, Sherlock, you were saying that the delightful Inspector and I have a little package to deliver to the Met."

"No small package – it's two ruddy great snake carcasses filled with heroin!" exclaimed Inspector Rivers.

Mycroft's eyes widened. "I see. Dare I ask . . . ?"

"Better not," said Sherlock. "Just be sure to tell Lestrade to keep that bastard Anderson away from them at all costs."

"Come this way, then, Inspector. Your chariot awaits." Mycroft turned to Martin. "Good to see you, old chap. Next time you're in London, let me stand you a drink at my club."

This time it was Martin's turn to snort.

"Are you coming with us, Sherlock?" Inspector Rivers asked.

He shook his head. "No, I need to go back to Portwenn. I know that blasted monkey is involved in this somehow. If I can track it down, I may find out who is behind all this. It is personal now; I am certain that snake was meant for me."

"Monkey?" asked Ellingham. "You say there is a monkey involved in this as well as snakes."

"Yes, I think so. And if I'm right, we should find the monkey and a whole bunch of dangerous snakes, some of them dead. The smugglers would have to kill them to retrieve the drugs."

"Well, I haven't seen a monkey. But I do know a forest ranger who stumbled upon a pile of dead snakes that looked like they'd been shot and then eviscerated."

Sherlock's head snapped at this one. "Where? Near Portwenn? Anywhere near the power station?"

"In the woods, near the ranger station along the coast."

"Can you take me there?"

Ellingham looked uncomfortable. "I could. Though it is best not to surprise Stuart. And I should look in on Doctor Watson, see how he's coming along."

Sherlock looked abashed for a moment, as if he'd only just remembered Doctor Watson, pale and unconscious, somewhere at the Royal Cornwall.

Taking pity on his brother, Mycroft sighed and pulled out his mobile. "I suppose you'll need transport, won't you, Sherlock – since you arrived in the helicopter that will be taking the Inspector and me on to London. I'll have Anthea send a car for you and Doctor Ellingham. If he's agreeable, perhaps you can both visit John before heading back to Portwenn."

As he dialed his assistant, he overheard Ellingham say, "What kind of a monkey are you looking for?"

What a circus!

To be continued . . .


	12. Chapter 12

**Convergence of the Twain, a Doc Martin and Sherlock Crossover Story**

Doc Martin belongs to Buffalo Pictures. Sherlock belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. I own nothing but my imagination.

Set between episodes 3 and 4 of Doc Martin series 5 and between episodes 1 and 2 of Sherlock series 2

**Chapter 12— Confrontations**

"Oi, you, - the Casualty Department is that way." The officious little redhead was pointing towards a door on her right.

Martin turned to face the receptionist and stared at her.

"Page Doctor Sparrow. Now, if you please."

"Oh, it's you." The homely young woman sighed heavily, clearly remembering as well as Martin did some of their previous encounters. "Well take your patient over to Accident and Emergency, and mind he doesn't bleed all over the carpet."

"Patient?" He gave her a quizzical look.

"Him? Him that is standing next to you? Covered in blood?" She waved her arm in Sherlock's direction.

"Not his blood." Martin crossed his arms.

She eyed the detective warily.

"Doctor Sparrow. In this lifetime please. I don't have all night." Martin didn't even try to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

"Oh really? And what shall I tell her, then? That Doctor Posho von Highhorse from the Bog-end of Nowhere has taken her reserved parking place?"

Martin felt his ears flush. He glanced at Sherlock, who had a bemused look on his face. "She is overseeing the treatment of one of my patients. I have come to check on his progress and consult with her."

"Well I'm not paging the chief of neurology to give you directions. Tell me the name of your patient and I'll tell you what ward he is in."

"He shouldn't be in any ward – he should be in intensive care!" Martin was enraged, and once again he counted his blessings that he would soon be shut of this place and its impertinent little twits who stood in the way of him doing his job. In a matter of weeks he'd be back where he belonged, back in London, at Imperial, doing surgery. Where receptionists would be eager to do his bidding. Or afraid not to. He didn't let his mind wander to what would happen to that plan if his Hemophobia continued to rear its ugly head as it had tonight.

Before the woman could compose her retort, Sherlock sidled in front of Martin, his posture and his whole demeanor changing. Martin braced himself for the detective's cutting attack on the receptionist and even relished the thought, having experienced first-hand, the blunt end of that stick himself back in Portwenn. He was wholly unprepared for what came next.

"Miss . . . Miss Tompkins, is it?" The detective asked, almost timidly, looking at her name badge. "It would be awfully good of you to tell us where John Watson is and let Doctor Ellingham speak to the consultant." Holmes twisted his hands in the hem of his shirt in a way that emphasized the blood stains. "I'm frantic with worry – John seemed to be dying in my arms until Doctor Ellingham arrived. And they wouldn't let me in the ambulance – seeing as I'm not officially family . . ." He wiped at the corner of his eye with a conspicuously blood-soaked handkerchief.

Lord, he's pouring it on thick, thought Martin. At least he assumed he was pouring it on. Holmes had given no previous indication of a maudlin sentimentality.

"Well, I . . ." the girl was flustered now. "What did you say his name was? John …"

"Watson, John Watson," said Sherlock, in a dramatic voice. "His name is John Watson. And thank you . . . Fiona is it? May I call you Fiona?"

Martin noted with distaste that Miss Tompkins visibly blushed when the detective purred her Christian name. Sherlock had now perched himself on the edge of her desk and taken her hand between his. From Martin's vantage point, he could see that the detective was angling to get a look at her computer screen, not that she noticed. She used her other hand to manipulate her computer mouse and navigate the records system. Her eyelashes fluttered.

"Ah, yes, here he is John Watson," she simpered. "Brought in 40 minutes ago. It looks like he is in theatre three with Mr. Campbell – the orthopedic surgeon."

Sherlock glanced at Martin, who nodded. That was a good sign. If John was in surgery, then his vitals must have stabilized and the transfusion must have been completed. No one would be worrying about cleaning up the surgical site on his arm if he was still in imminent danger from the snake venom.

"I'm grateful to you, Fiona, ever so grateful."

God, thought Martin. It looks like he is going to kiss her hand.

"Er, yes." She took her hand back and gazed almost lovingly at Sherlock. "If you take the lift to the second floor and turn left, you will find the family waiting area." She emphasized the word family. "I am sure Doctor Ellingham can show you where it is."

"Yes. Follow me." Martin wasn't sure whether to cheer or groan that Sherlock's sappy performance had succeeded where his own bluster had failed.

"And I'll have Doctor Sparrow meet you there," she added meekly.

"See that you do," he said, and grabbing Sherlock by the arm, Martin marched towards the lift.

As soon as they rounded the corner away from the receptionist, Sherlock gave him a conspiratorial wink and tossed his bloody handkerchief in the nearest bin. "She's cross because her boyfriend hasn't called her. She has three tattered romance novels in her handbag, her screen saver is a picture of kittens dressed as a bride and groom, and she's doodled over and over on her blotter 'Mr. and Mrs. Jude Law, Mrs. Fiona Law, Jude and Fiona Law.' Appealing to her sense of tragic romance seemed most expedient in this case."

Martin just stared.

X

It was nearly dawn when Sherlock saw John's eyes flutter open. He'd been pacing the length and breadth of the tiny private hospital room (Did Mycroft's influence know no boundaries?) for what seemed an eternity; seeing this first sign of consciousness he stopped in mid-stride to breathe a sigh of relief. Was it relief? Exasperation? Expectation?

"Sherlock?" John's voice was gravelly, groggy. "Where am I?"

"Hospital."

"Bart's?" John struggled to turn his head and look around.

"No, we're still in Cornwall. What do you remember?"

"Cornwall. Oh. Lestrade's dead junkies. And Molly thought there was a snake. Oh God, the snake. There WAS a snake."

"Yes, the snake. You were bitten but you're going to be fine in a couple of days. You've had the anti-venom and a transfusion." Dr. Sparrow had indicated there would be no permanent neurological deficit but Sherlock had to admit he'd be happier when he saw John back on his own two feet. He had a sudden and uncomfortable flashback to John strapped with explosives on the deck of a swimming pool.

John tried to move his arm and grimaced in pain. He gave Sherlock a puzzled look.

"You also had surgery on your arm. Doctor Ellingham operated in the pub actually – he asked me to assist which was quite interesting I must say. No one has ever let me near a live patient before. They closed it up when you got here. Fasciotomy. "

"Christopher Ellingham? From Bart's?"

"No, the GP in Portwenn. Come on, John, keep up. You were right that he used to be a surgeon. It was obvious he was a very good surgeon watching him work. And it was also obvious why he's a GP down here now; the man has a crippling blood phobia. It's astonishing how he functions even as a GP."

"Sherlock!" Even in his weakened state, John managed to convey his indignation at Sherlock's usual lack of sensitivity.

"Not good?"

"A bit not good, yeah." John croaked.

Sherlock allowed himself a little smile. The niceties of human interactions were not terribly useful to him. But it felt – comfortable was perhaps the best word – to have John back to calling him on it.

John turned onto his side to face Sherlock. "What are you wearing?"

Sherlock looked down. "Oh, the receptionist found me a scrub shirt to borrow – Ellingham and me both. There was quite a lot of blood." Seeing John pale at that, he hastily added, "Not all of it was yours. Some belonged to the snakes."

"What did they say about my kidney function" John asked. Then he shook his head. "Just give me my chart and I'll check myself."

Sherlock plucked the notes hung on the foot of the bed and handed them to John, seating himself on the chair beside his friend while John thumbed through the notes.

"F. Sparrow is the neurologist," John mumbled. "That wouldn't be Frank Sparrow, would it? I went to medical school with him . . ."

Sherlock only noticed that Ellingham had entered the room when they both responded to John in unison. "No."

Sherlock added, "F is for Frances. - with an 'es'. And she's old enough to be your mother."

The GP was sporting a green hospital scrub shirt under his own suit, Sherlock noted.

"How is your vision this morning, Doctor Watson?"

"Not bad. A bit blurry around the edges." Sherlock could tell from John's voice that he was still groggy. An alert John would have been using med-speak with his physician at the drop of a hat.

Ellingham nodded to himself, and then checked the monitors hooked up to John while Sherlock evaluated the doctor. His color was better now that no one was covered in blood. His hands were steady and he appeared to be every bit the self-assured and competent medical professional one would expect.

"I understand I have you to thank, Doctor Ellingham, for saving my arm." John's voice was quiet but warm.

Ellingham's ears pinked up. "Oh, yes, well. Thankfully we had the right equipment on hand and the helicopter waiting. What really saved you was the anti-venom. You have, er, Dodger to thank for that."

"Dodger?"

"He means Mycroft, John. It seems he was at school with Doctor Ellingham when they were boys."

Sherlock managed to suppress his urge to giggle, but he knew he would enjoy sharing that story with John when they were back in Baker Street. His eyes met John's and from John's single raised eyebrow, he knew his flatmate was amused as well. He wondered if he could get John, Lestrade and the Yarders, maybe even Anthea to resurrect Mycroft's nickname. Tormenting his brother was always an entertaining pastime. He made a note to have a case – no, wait, a pallet's worth - of Jammy Dodgers overnighted to Mycroft's office as an ostensible thank you gift for helping John. Ooh the possibilities for humiliation were endless.

"Any other symptoms? Any pain here?" Ellingham asked as he palpated John's arm near the elbow.

"I feel as if I am hung over, to tell the truth. Dehydrated, nauseated and with a terrible headache. A little dihydrocodeine wouldn't go amiss."

"All to be expected after the venom." He poured John a glass of water from the carafe on the bedside cabinet, and adjusted the bed so John was sitting upright to drink. "I'll prescribe some prochlorperazine for the nausea. If I give you dihydrocodeine now, you'll have to postpone your next dose of morphine. Which do you prefer?"

Sherlock lost interest quickly in Ellingham's examination of John, although he did wonder if Ellingham was this solicitous of the opinions of his patients who weren't fellow members of the medical profession. He would doubt it. He had been continuously reworking the data in his possession about the snakes and the heroin and the pick-pocketing monkey and any possible connections between London and Cornwall. He hadn't reached any plausible explanations yet; what he needed was not more time to think but more data.

Lestrade had not been terribly appreciative of the text at 3 a.m. inquiring as to the status of the Yard's analysis of the snake carcasses. His exact replay had been _Do you know what time it is you mad bugger? _Which from Sherlock's perspective had been entirely beside the point. The mobile logged the time of each text – surely Lestrade didn't need him to demonstrate that. He felt no remorse at waking Lestrade up. Sherlock didn't sleep when he was investigating a case and had no patience for those who did.

"What about those snakes, then? The ones your patient found?" Sherlock asked Ellingham, who was busily writing in John's chart.

"Er, yes. I was doing a home visit and when I was there he asked me to help him bury the contents of a large, heavy bag. He has a history of . . . of unusual requests, so I wasn't sure what to expect when he opened the bag, even though he said it contained dead snakes. It did contain some very large snake carcasses – they were riddled with bullet holes and several I could see had been slashed open with some kind of knife. He said he found them in the woods that way."

"Did he report it to the police?"

"Not that I know of. I suspect Inspector Rivers might have heard if he did."

"God, Maia." John mumbled. "What happened to Maia?"

"She took the snakes back to London. To have the heroin extracted and examined."

"Heroin! What heroin?"

"When I shot the snake in your room – technically my room as a matter of fact – there was heroin spilling out of it. I had Inspector Rivers take the snakes to London for further analysis. But I'm certain the heroin in the snakes is tied to the Lestrade's dead bodies."

"Hold on, Sherlock. I've been under anesthesia and I'm missing a few things here. What does Doctor Ellingham have to do with this?"

"The snakes in the suitcases reminded him that he had a patient who'd asked him to help bury some dead snakes. They looked like they had been sliced open, which is consistent with them being used to smuggle heroin. What we need now is to find the culprits. I am certain that they are the ones running your Inspector Rivers' pick-pocketing monkey, but I haven't enough information to identify them yet."

"What about the monkey?" John looked seriously confused. Sherlock hoped it was only due to the medication – he thought he had taught his blogger to be more observant than this.

"Someone had to have let the snake into your room. The window was only open about four inches – not enough for a person, at least not an adult. I found animal hair on the carpet. I am certain that monkey who picked my pocket earlier – yesterday now, I suppose – came in through the window and opened the door to let the handler bring the snake in."

"Handler?" asked Ellingham. "You think there is an animal handler involved."

"Well I don't believe the snake is capable of forming criminal intentions. Genesis notwithstanding."

"No, of course not. But. . . ." Ellingham looked uncomfortable. "Look. As I said, I can't talk about the details of my patients' conditions. But there was an unfamiliar man in my surgery earlier this week with a monkey bite. He and his companion said they worked for the circus. And I wouldn't have given it another thought, except Louisa seemed very convinced that the circus was not in town and I have to admit I haven't seen any evidence whatsoever of a circus in the village this week." He hesitated again. "It's probably not connected. The circus might be in one of the surrounding villages or just passing through."

"And Louisa would be your wife?" asked Sherlock.

Ellingham gave him a hard stare. "We're not married."

X

"Now remember what I said. While Stuart said we could come, you have to know he's not always . . . stable. He's ex-military, trained as a sniper, and convinced he lives with a six foot squirrel named Anthony. When I was here before, he seemed to think Anthony had killed the snakes."

"Is he armed?"

"Probably. He can be completely genial. And when I rang him, I told him I was bringing a scientist who was interested in studying the snakes. Which is mostly true." Martin was trying to convince himself as well as Sherlock that he wasn't betraying any of Stuart's confidences or taking advantage of him in bringing Sherlock here. He wasn't entirely sure. He was beginning to wish he'd confided in Louisa when he stopped home to change his clothes and get his car.

Sherlock nodded. He surprised Martin by pulling a handgun out of the pocket of his suit jacket and checking the clip.

"I don't think we'll need that," Martin objected, struggling to remind himself to keep his eyes on the road rather than on the gun disappearing back into his companion's pocket.

"We can always hope." The detective seemed just a little too enthusiastic about that possibility.

"Now see here . . . this isn't the Wild West."

"Duly noted. I just wanted you to know that I was prepared. I am, of course, an excellent shot. Do you have a walking stick? Or a proper umbrella?"

What would he want with that? "Maybe there is something in the boot. I can check when we arrive."

When they reached the ranger station, Martin stopped the car. He took a deep breath before taking his hands off the wheel and gesturing to Sherlock to exit the car. He took his medical bag, including the specially prepared bottle of tablets, out of the back seat and opened the boot for Sherlock.

The detective rummaged in the boot for a moment, making Martin squirm at the possibility of disorder among his belongings. He pulled out a four-pronged walking cane and examined it for a moment in the light. "Not quite what Barton-Wright had in mind, I suspect, but it will serve its purpose nicely if required."

Who on earth was Barton-Wright?

After a nod from Holmes, Martin called out "Stuart! Stuart, are you there? It's Doctor Ellingham. I've brought some more tablets for Anthony. And Mr. Holmes is with me. Stuart?"

"Mornin' doctor!" the ranger called out, opening his front door.

"May we come in?" Martin asked, pointing gingerly at the gate.

"Sure, come on in. I have the coffee on."

"Excellent," murmured Sherlock, as Martin opened the gate and followed him through.

Sherlock was using the cane, walking as if the muscles in his left leg had atrophied. Martin wasn't sure what that was about, but allowed that it might serve to persuade Stuart that he was harmless. He had to admit that the detective was clever.

Martin reached the porch first. "Hello Stuart." He watched the man's eyes, trying to gauge if he believed that the imaginary squirrel was standing next to him. He'd been in trouble before for ignoring the beast's presence. Hedging his bets, he asked, "Has Anthony had any more frights lately? I brought him some more tablets." He held out to Stuart a vial, once again labeled _take once daily as needed for fright_.

"Ah, thanks, Doc. Ant's been pretty well. I've been making him leave his gun behind when he goes on patrol. I expect that's why there haven't been any more incidents with the snakes."

"Ah the snakes," said Holmes, apparently seeing his opening.

"Stuart, this is the man I was telling you about. Mr. Holmes is studying the snakes in this part of the country. When I told him you, well you and Anthony, had run into some interesting ones down here he hoped to meet you, learn what you'd seen."

Sherlock set the cane down on its prongs and reached his right hand up to shake Stuart's. The ranger eyed him warily, not taken in at all by the smarmy grin the detective had plastered on his face.

"What kind of scientist did you say you were?" Stuart asked, still not deigning to shake Sherlock's hand.

"I didn't say, but I am a zoologist . . ."

Holmes had scarcely begun to say the word zoologist when Stuart screamed.

"He's from the greys, he's from the greys!" In seconds, the ranger had pulled a rifle from somewhere and pointed it at both Martin and Sherlock.

Martin immediately put his hands up.

"Stuart, it's alright."

"I'd have thought better of you Doc. I thought you and Ant were friends. Now you're bringing some evil scientist down to take him away and study him for those grey squirrels. They'll put him in some sterile lab and when they're done, he'll not be fit for anything but a zoo. Well that's not happening on my watch!" He leveled the gun at Holmes.

Martin couldn't have said what happened next, it was all so fast. One moment Stuart was pointing his gun at Sherlock, who was leaning on his cane and continuing the charade of being disabled. Then all of a sudden, Holmes was flying through the air in an elaborate leap and using his legs to kick away the gun and the cane to force Stuart to the ground. One more move had the ranger forced onto his back with Sherlock pinning his wrists to the ground with the cane and straddling his torso. It was like the moves of a complex ballet, only far more useful in this context.

"What was that?" Martin asked Sherlock as he gazed down at Stuart's confused face.

"For a number of years I have been a student of neo-bartitsu, a revival of the first truly English martial art, developed in the early twentieth century by Edward Barton-Wright. It can be quite useful, although Mr. Barton-Wright's expectation that every man would carry a walking stick to be used as a weapon of self-defense when necessary is perhaps overly optimistic."

"I see."

"Now Stuart, if you please, I have no intentions, good or ill, towards your squirrel, but I am quite anxious to exhume the snakes and make a search of the area for any evidence of similar snakes nearby. If I let you up, will you help me?"

Stuart nodded hesitantly, his eyes on Martin as if asking for reassurance.

None of this was what Martin had expected, although with Stuart it always was better not to have expectations. He was beginning to think that it would have been better not to have become involved, and wondering how he could extricate himself with any modicum of self-respect at this point.

"Holmes, I . . ." He what? How could he express what he didn't even understand himself?

"Problem?" The detective was inappropriately cheerful for one who was still pinning a psychotic sniper to the ground with a NHS issue cane.

Martin sighed. "No. No problem."

To be continued . . .

Author's note:

Bartitsu is a martial art developed by Edward Barton-Wright in the early 20th century and did involve cane-fighting as well as moves derived from the Japanese martial arts, including jujitsu. In his books, Arthur Conan-Doyle mentioned that Holmes is an expert in the art of "baritsu" which is commonly thought to be a misspelling of bartitsu. Neo-bartitsu is a twenty-first century British revival of the methods of Barton-Wright that occurred when articles written by Barton-Wright were discovered in the British Library archives and republished. It is a cross-training martial art involving boxing, kickboxing, jujitsu and stick fighting.


End file.
